Shells
by silentsentinel
Summary: His gloves were filthy, encrusted with sand from deserts far away. They were certainly in no state to hold the fate of a world. Tactician x Lyn and more pairings. Chapter 14: Soothingly Painful, now up. Currently on hiatus, will be back, I promise.
1. Chapter 1

So, I've been reading stories at this site for a long time. Very long time. _Extremely_ long time. And now, I feel as though I have to contribute.

Now, do realize this is my first fanfiction. _Ever_. So, please be nice to me. No flames, or anything. I type fast, so there may be a few errors in the story.

The premise of this story is kind of overdone: a person from another world falls into Fire Emblem. However, please bear with me. I've added a tiny twist: the character brings something with him.

Also, I feel the need to say this: The character is from the U.S. military, currently stationed in Iraq. What I write in no way reflects my political views. I do not know about your political affiliations or your view on the current conflict; please do not turn your reviews into a bunch of political yelling matches. Besides, the fact that he is in Iraq is not very important to the story.

And finally, I do not own Fire Emblem. Or the U.S. military. Or much of anything else, for that matter.

* * *

Mark yawned as the humvee came to a bumpy stop, throwing up clouds of dirt. The Seaman (Hospitalman, to be exact) blinked rapidly and adjusted his floppy boonie hat (he hated wearing helmets, and put on the boonie whenever the officers weren't looking). They had arrived.

Mark Bristow didn't look as though he belonged in the military. His unkempt black hair was longer than military regulation and his skin was pale and unhealthy-looking, despite constant hours in the desert sun. He was of average height and build, but somehow managed to look as though he would be blown away in a strong wind.

However, his fragile-looking exterior belied his other skills. He was deceptively cunning, and officers made note of his tendency to remain calm during combat situations and his high tolerance for both heat and cold. They also noted that he was somewhat strange, often staring into the distance or at the ground, as if distracted by some inner sadness. But he performed his duties as a medic well, and they could not complain. However, they felt it necessary to report his disturbing fixation with knives.

Mark opened the door of the humvee and was momentarily blinded the sun. He reached for his sunglasses, then remembered that he had stepped on them two days back. He sighed.

Slowly the dusty landscape came into view. A set of stone houses of varying height and width stretched out for miles around. The one in front of him was particularly large and dirty, and was at the center of the town. A small crowd of people surrounded the door to the house, looking tentative.

Mark looked back at the twelve other humvees. The Marines were already getting out, turning away from the sun.

He stepped from the vehicle, then turned and struggled to pull a large duffel bag out of the humvee. The driver jumped out and pushed Mark aside, yanking out the bag with an almighty tug. Mark shrugged. He was a combat medic, not an adrenaline-fueled juggernaut. He took the bag from the Marine, struggling a little under the weight, and turned to face the children. They seemed unhappy; they started screaming as soon as he laid eyes on them. The _parents_ weren't screaming, but they still looked apprehensive, and rightfully so.

"Great," said the Marine. He was a very imposing man, nearly seven feet tall, with bulging muscles. "Makes this job so much easier."

"I'm the one doing the brunt of the work, Daley," said Mark.

"Oh sure, bandages and shit. I have to _entertain_ the little bastards."

"Language," muttered Mark, fumbling with the duffel bag's zipper. Daley snorted and moved to get the other bags as a second, lanky Marine hopped out of the car. He watched Mark's efforts with the bag for a moment, then chortled.

"Ha! Navy swab can' even open da' bag! Wan' me ta help?"

"Nah, I've got it."

Mark opened the bag and exposed it contents to the children: chocolate, soda pop, and freeze-dried ice cream. The children's crying suddenly subsided into a series of sniffles. Mark nodded encouragingly. Everyone liked candy.

"Huh," said Daley, who was pulling two equally large duffel bags from the vehicle, "And so begins Operation No We Do Not Eat Babies." He snorted again. "I hate kids."

"Well," said Gagnier, the second Marine, "_they_ gonna be lovin' us in no time."

"That's sarcasm, right?" asked Daley. Mark ignored them both and held out the chocolate to the Iraqis. They refused to come closer, so he tossed it to them.

"Entertain them!" called Mark.

"Just wait. Let me find me a freaking _Barney suit_!"

Mark sighed. "Use the soccer ball. Everyone likes soccer."

"Baseball, all the way," said Daley, but he got the ball out of the car.

Gagnier was right. The grownups were still apprehensive, but the children, naturally, were quick to trust. After the candy was distributed Mark began bandaging kids with scrapes and bruises, giving the occasional injection. The rest of the children played soccer with a reluctant Daley. He played goalie, using his gun to club the ball, over and over, when it got too close. His team won.

"Wow," said Daley after the game had ended, smiling for the first time since they had arrived, "and to think I've never played soccer."

"You've missed your true calling," sighed Mark as he wrapped gauze around a eight-year-old girl's arm. When he was finished the girl jumped up, said something, and hurried off to join in a friendly game of kill-the-child-with-the-ball.

"What did she say?" asked Mark.

"_She sayed 'thank you', ya U.S. Navy ig-nor-a-mus_!"

Mark shook his head. Gagnier knew five languages, but linguistics were not a part of Mark's considerable mental skills.

A young man came up to Mark and tugged on his sleeve. Mark turned, and the man smiled.

"Could you please come inside?" the man said in perfect English. "I must show you something." Mark hesitated, but the man tugged his sleeve again. "Please. 'Tis a matter of some importance."

Mark stared. The man was short and stocky, with a lighter complexion than his fellows. He had interesting eyes. They were icy blue, and made Mark think of glaciers.

"Please," said the man again.

Mark sighed and began to walk into the house, but the man stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. He pointed to the submachine gun clipped to Mark's back.

"My wife. She does not like those."

Mark looked to Daley, who simply shrugged and continued to explain the glories of baseball to the Iraqi children, who couldn't understand but seemed happy to sit and listen. Gagnier wasn't even looking. He was sitting on the humvee hood with a book over his eyes. Mark sighed and unclipped the gun, throwing it to Daley. It bounced off his helmet, and the children laughed. Mark ignored the Marine's cursing and laid a hand over his KA-BAR, which was strapped to the upper left corner of his chest.

"I'm keeping the knife."

The man grinned and walked into the house. Mark followed.

The house had five small rooms. Mark was in the living room, which was shaped like a rectangle. It had a single two-seater couch and a wicker chair. A prayer room lay off to the right, which was where the man led the bemused medic into.

The prayer room held nothing more than a prayer rug and a black duffel bag. The man walked over to the bag as Mark stood in a corner, feeling out of place.

"Please," said the man, "Look inside."

Mark strode over and tentatively looked inside the duffel bag. It contained, among other things, a small mirror, a straight-edged razor, a few energy bars, three bottles of water, and two books. It was an odd assortment of items. Mark shifted through the pile and touched something cold and metallic. He stared closer and leapt back in surprise. The mysterious man smiled again.

"What? It's just a shotgun."

Mark stared at the man for a moment, then reached over his chest to his combat knife.

"AttackingacombatmedicisawarcrimeundertheGenevaConvention," he stammered.

The man laughed, his eyes gleaming. "Which one?"

"Who cares?" asked Mark, backing away.

"Don't worry. It's yours. I just found the bag on the road. That gun is U.S. military equipment, right?"

The man picked up the bag with both hands and offered it to the soldier. Mark took two steps forward and grabbed it, then leapt back. He began to back away when the man spoke again.

"They need your help, Mark."

Mark's eyes went wide.

"How do you know my name?"

The man was no longer smiling. "They need you. They need a tactician."

"Who needs a tactician?" asked Mark. He was thoroughly creeped out.

"The ones who will perish in flame," said the man. He took a step closer, and Mark took a step back.

"Who are you?" asked Mark. He drew the knife and held it before him in a reverse grip, the knife held upside down. The man simply smiled.

The room shimmered blue, and two rings formed around Mark, one inside the other. In between the two rings floated strange symbols. Mark felt a tingling in his feet, slowly moving up to his knees.

He quickly turned to run and slammed into an invisible wall. He was stuck.

"Goodbye," said the man. He waved his hand, and Mark turned insubstantial. The symbols glowed and the room began to fade.

"Oh—"

And then he was gone. The man grimaced.

"I hope he likes skydiving."

* * *

Mark was falling. He had been falling for a very long time. The bag fell with him, its straps rustling in the wind.

For the first couple of hours he had screamed. Then he lost his voice, and screamed silently. Then he got bored of screaming and just fell. Then he pretended he was skydiving. Now he was trying to amuse himself by reciting the periodic table, along with each element's atomic mass.

Number 47. Ag. Silver. Latin name Argentum. Atomic mass 107.87. Number 48. Cd. Cadmium…

He finished the periodic table and had just begun to ponder what would happen if he punched a jaguar in the face when an immense plain opened up before him. He spread out his arms to try and slow himself down, not that it would help much, and crashed into the plain at a speed of approximately 120 miles per hour. It didn't hurt.

Mark lay there, surrounded by the tall golden grass of the plain. It was all a bit too much for him to take, so he simply shut down.

And then he woke up. The prairie dogs went ballistic and fled.

He sat up, curled into a fetal position. After rocking back and forth for a few minutes his military training took over, and he looked around and tried to assess the situation.

A strange man had given him a bag with a really big shotgun in it and then opened a rift in space which had sucked him in and he had fell for a long time and now he had scared a bunch of prairie dogs and was sitting in a fetal position next to the bag and his crumpled boonie hat.

_The bag_.

Mark took a deep breath and crawled over to the bag, unzipping it. He pulled out the shotgun first.

It was a M1014 Combat Shotgun, a semi-automatic weapon that was currently being given out the U.S. military, mainly the Marines. Mark sighed. He didn't like shotguns. He didn't like any guns, but shotguns were particularly barbaric.

However, unlike most M1014's, which were jet black, the gun had a desert camouflage print that matched his uniform. Somehow, it made the thing less evil-looking. He placed it aside and looked into the bag.

Aside from the shaving materials, food, and books he saw earlier, there was a box of 24 shells for the gun, a pack of water-purification tablets, flint and steel, and a box of pens. He pulled out the books. One was a blank composition book, the other was the famous _The Art of War_. Mark snorted. Tactician indeed.

Mark then inspected himself. He wore Marine Corps battle fatigues with body armor, but he had left his helmet in the humvee. He had a backpack with several first aid kits. In his belt he had a lighter, a flashlight, extra socks, some candy, and his most prized possession, wrapped in black silk.

Mark sighed. He was in an unknown place where he had to help some people who would "perish in flame." He wondered what that meant. These plains, with the long grass, were definitely a fire hazard.

He decided that his best chances for survival would be to obey the man who had got him here, so he began to read the book. He memorized it in one hour and tossed it into the bag. He zipped it up and had just retrieved his hat when he heard a voice behind him.

"Oo'er you?"

Mark leapt to his feet, then grimaced as the cramp set in. The man in front of him was huge. He wore no shirt, just a ragged pair of pants, and in his left hand was a large axe. Several other men stood behind him, wearing similar attire and wielding the same weapons. There were five in all.

Mark blinked. He must be in a third world country.

"Hello," said Mark, his voice a little hoarse.

The man in front grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. Mark grimaced. Such poor hygiene. He would have to save these people from tooth decay before combating the flames. Whatever they were. But the man was talking again, so Mark stopped thinking and listened.

"Yer wearin' some pretty odd garments ther', mister."

Mark looked down. He supposed they would look odd to third world countrymen.

"Yer boots look real good. Good fer walkin', eh?"

"Quite," said Mark, trying to be friendly. Maybe these men would take him to a town. He could pay them with candy.

"S'matter o' fact, methinks I'll take em'."

The other men grinned, and closed in.

Mark backed away, his hands up in the universal gesture of goodwill. The men didn't seem to care.

The shotgun was inside the bag, and was unloaded. The only reachable weapon he had was his knife, and its seven-inch blade looked puny compared to those axes. However, he had no choice.

He pulled it out of it sheath and dropped his hat to the ground. He flipped the knife over and held it in a reverse grip, just as he had done when he was facing the strange man.

He wondered about his armor. The vest was augmented with titanium plates, and would be able to deflect the axes. However, there were gaps in the plating, and the strength of these men could probably still cause blunt force trauma, armor or not. Furthermore, the armor did not protect the lower half of his body.

The first man stepped up and swung his axe at Mark's torso. Mark didn't try to block, knowing that he couldn't match the man for strength. He simply took two steps forward and drove the knife downward into the man's chest.

The other men stood in shock as Mark twisted the blade and stepped back, wrenching the knife out. The attacker opened his mouth, trying to say something, but then he toppled. The men stared at his body for a few moments, then stared back up at Mark, who was looking more ill than usual.

Another bandit charged forward. Mark ducked down and drove his dagger into the man's foot. The bandit opened his mouth to roar, but Mark pulled the dagger out and once again drove the blade downward into the man's chest. He twisted and pulled it out, feeling as though he were about to vomit.

A third bandit narrowed his eyes and lifted the axe over his head. He opened his mouth and screamed. Mark watched in fascinated horror as the scream became steadily more high-pitched, to a point were it sounded almost reptilian. The bandit crouched and leapt into the air. Mark stepped to the side, and the bandit landed next to him, his axe imbedded in the earth. Mark tried to dart forward, but the bandit quickly wrenched the axe out of the ground and slammed it into his stomach.

Mark tumbled head over heels, completely winded, his knife flying from his hands. He rolled to a stop next to the bag and watched as darkness crept from the corners of his eyes. He would die now. Not that he had had much to live for in the first place.

_The magic man must be feeling very foolish_, thought Mark. _Oh, I can hear the clashing of steel._

And with that, Mark blacked out for the second time that day.

* * *

And then he woke up. There were no prairie dogs.

He kept his eyes closed. He was lying on something fluffy. A cloud, perhaps? Odd. If the stories were true, he should have ended up in hell. Not that he was complaining.

He opened his eyes and opened his mouth to greet the angels when he noticed that he was in a bed. A nice, clean, white bed. For a second, Mark was dazzled by visions of hot food and cute nurses, but then he saw the walls. It appeared that they were made of canvas.

"Oh, you're awake."

Mark started and instinctively reached for his knife. Wasn't there. He felt naked without it.

A girl came into view. She was slim and had blue eyes, and was wearing blue dress that old people would certainly object to. Most old people, anyway. Mark gave a start. Her hair was teal. Certainly not natural.

"Um…"

"My name is Lyn. I found you unconscious on the plains."

Mark sat up, then doubled over in pain. Yep, just like he had expected. His armor had deflected the axe, but he had still received a nasty bruise.

Lyn hurried over, a worried expression on her face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, trying to look at Mark's face.

"Fine… Bad bruise… Those men…"

Lyn smiled. "The bandits, you mean? I drove them off."

Mark was grateful, but he felt a severe blow to his self-esteem. This _teenager_ had driven off a group of men who nearly killed him. He reminded himself that he was a medic, not a fighter.

He'd killed two, though. The memory made him feel both proud and sick.

"You're with the Lorca tribe now," said Lyn. "You are safe."

Mark didn't want to be with the Lorca tribe. He wanted to be in HQ, surrounded by several meters of armor and a bunch of trigger-happy Marines. Not to mention those lovely nurses. Not that this girl wasn't pretty. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Well, can you remember your name?"

"My… name is Mark," groaned the medic.

"Your name is Mark? What an odd sounding name. But pay me no mind, for it is a good name. You wear odd clothes, by the way. Are you a traveler?"

Mark looked down. He was still wearing his Combat Utility Uniform. His armor, belt and pack were gone, as was his knife.

"Yes, I do. Wear odd clothes, I mean. Where's the rest of my stuff?"

"Oh," said Lyn. She turned and pointed to the wall, where Mark's equipment was neatly stacked. The shotgun was also laying against the wall. Mark paled (a hardly noticeable thing).

"Why is that out of the bag?" he asked.

Lyn blushed. "Well, you see, I saw the strange clothes you were wearing, so I wanted to know what other things you had. That is the strangest walking stick I have ever seen, so I took it out to inspect it. I am sorry. I should not have intruded."

Mark sighed. "It's all right."

Walking stick? He was definitely in a third world country.

Lyn smiled again and sat on a small cupboard.

"What brings you to the Sacae plains? Would you share your story with me?" she asked.

Mark opened his mouth, wondering what to say, when several shouts came from outside. Lyn stared at the door quizzically, then stepped out of the building, which Mark now realized to be some sort of hut. Lyn quickly ran inside and grabbed a sword that was propped up against the wall.

"Bandits!" she gasped. "They must have come to raid the local villages! I must stop them! Stay here! You'll be safe!"

Lyn quickly ran out of the hut. Mark paled again and rolled out of bed, falling in a tangle of sheets onto the floor. His stomach exploded in another wave of pain, but Mark gritted his teeth and crawled to his equipment. He opened the bag and smashed the box of shells, grabbing a handful, then pulled the knife out of its sheath and placed it between his teeth. He groped for the shotgun and used it to push himself to his feet. He hobbled out of the hut, spilling shells as he tried to load the weapon.

It was very pretty outside. The sea of tall grass just ended, and a sea of green stretched off into the distance. Lyn was crouched, about to run, but then she spotted Mark.

"Please," she said as Mark grunted in pain, "you are not fit enough to fight. Wait, you can _fight_?"

Mark collapsed into the fringes of the tall grass. He stabbed his knife into the dirt and loaded a single shell. He had dropped the rest.

"Actually," said Mark rubbing his stomach, "I'm a med- tactician. And yes, I can fight."

"Ah, I see… so you're a strategist by trade? An odd profession but… Very well. We'll go together!"

"Wait… _here_," muttered Mark as another wave of pain washed over him. "_Let them_… _come_."

Lyn looked impatient, but she drew her sword and waited.

There were only two bandits, but Mark's stomach was a painful reminder of what they could do. He lay low, hidden in the grass, as one bandit charged forward, closing in on Lyn.

At the last moment, she gracefully stepped to the side and slashed the bandit's back. The bandit stumbled, but managed to twist and slice Lyn's arm with his axe. Lyn grimaced, but slashed her sword again, drawing another shallow gash across the man's back. He roared and turned. Lyn held her sword at the ready but Mark leapt out of the grass like a breaching whale. A whale wearing combat fatigues and holding a deadly walking stick.

Mark held the gun at his hip like a cowboy out of a bad western. He tried to pump the gun, then realized that there wasn't a pump; the shotgun was semi-automatic. He pulled the trigger.

_BLAM_!

The recoil forced the gun out of Mark's trembling hands. Mark himself stumbled and fell backwards, provoking another wave of pain from his protesting stomach. The prairie dogs went ballistic, and a flock of birds hidden among the grass quickly flew up and away, chirping shrilly.

Lyn gasped in shock as the bandit's side exploded, disconnecting his left arm from his shoulder. He fell sideways onto the ground, splattering blood everywhere. Behind him, Mark curled up and retched violently.

Lyn rushed around the man, her eyes wide, and ran to Mark, giving the fallen gun a wide berth.

"Are you all right?" she cried.

"Fine, fine," said Mark. He reached out for the gun and used it to prop himself up again. Lyn backed away.

"What is that thing?" she asked, pointing at the shotgun.

"Shotgun," said Mark, rubbing his stomach. "There's… one more."

Lyn turned. There was indeed one more bandit, trying to break into another hut.

"I will get him," she said, but Mark grabbed her shoulder.

"You… got cut. Bandages… in my pack…"

Lyn smiled a twisted half-smile, still shocked from the gun. "I have a vulnerary."

_A what_?

Lyn reached into a satchel on the ground, one Mark had not noticed before, and pulled out a yellow bottle. Lyn poured a little on her wound, and Mark watched in awe as the skin healed and closed before his eyes. There wasn't even a scar.

He was definitely _not_ in a third world country. He doubted that he was even on planet Earth.

"All better."

"Give me some!" cried Mark.

"It does not work on bruises. I am sorry," said Lyn, but she threw the bottle to Mark anyway.

She quickly cleaned her sword on the grass, her hands shaking with impatience. "Just one bandit next to that ger."

"Wha'?" asked Mark, still staring at the vulnerary.

"You don't know what a ger is? It's a type of round hut. Many nomads live in huts like these."

"Ah," said Mark. Lyn began to run towards the bandit with Mark hobbling behind her, using the gun as a walking stick, quickly falling behind.

"He looks… strong!" yelled Mark, grunting with the exertion. "Use your speed! Wear him down! And be careful! I can't back you up!"

Lyn had already reached the bandit. It didn't even seem as though she had heard him.

"Who do you think you are? You think you can stand up to Batta the Beast?"

Lyn struck first, gashing the man's arm. Batta didn't even flinch, and swung his axe downward, ripping a similar, but much deeper gash across Lyn's arm. She screamed and fell to one knee, the sword tumbling from her grasp.

Mark gasped and took an overly large step. He twisted his ankle and fell. The shotgun flew from his hands, tumbling over and over it the air. It flew towards Batta just as he was about to land the killing blow. The heavy weapon's butt impacted his stomach, knocking him back a step.

"What?" he cried.

"Deus ex machina!" yelled Mark. He collapsed.

Lyn grabbed her sword with her left hand, wincing from the gash on her right. She readied herself.

Mark knew that he was seeing hallucinations brought on by pain. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn that Lyn had just split into three people and disappeared. Two slashes appeared across Batta's chest. There was a flash of light, and there was Lyn, standing with her sword deep into Batta's stomach.

"What? How… How did you..?"

Batta collapsed as Mark decided to succumb to the pain of his wounds. _Stupid bruise-creating, life-saving body armor_.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Well, my first chapter was quite long, and not entirely to my liking. Oh well. I can only go up from here. I hope.

Chapter 2

* * *

He woke up in the fluffy bed, again.

"Good morning Mark! Are you awake yet? That fight yesterday must have taken a lot out of you."

Mark nodded. "My stomach feels wonky." He lifted his shirt and inspected his stomach.

Mark touched the bruise gingerly. It was the first time he had seen it, and it didn't look as though it would heal for a long time. It was huge, nearly covering his entire stomach, and had turned black, providing an odd contrast with his pale skin.

Lyn looked concerned. "The bruise will heal, but your skin…"

"Its always been like that, said Mark, massaging the bruise. Some of the pain had gone away.

Lyn shook her head as though trying to get her thoughts in order.

"Say Mark… I would like to talk to you about something."

"Fire away," said Mark, staring at his arms to see if he had gained any muscle mass from his stint with the Marines. He hadn't.

"Could I travel with you?"

Mark looked up. "Travel?"

Lyn nodded. She had an odd look on her face. It almost looked like desperation.

"Well…" began Mark. He hadn't thought much of travel. Everything had happened too fast. He didn't even know the name of the continent he was on. But, if he was to obey the instructions the magic-man had laid down, he would have to travel.

He looked at Lyn. How old was she? Sixteen? Seventeen? He'd never been a very good judge of age.

"How old are you?" asked Mark.

Lyn stiffened and stood up a little straighter. Mark almost smiled. The defiant expression on her face was… funny.

"I'm nearly seventeen!" she said, forcefully.

"Sixteen, then. I'm sorry, but you've got to ask your parents."

Lyn slumped, sitting on the cupboard, her arms held limply. Mark could smell a war story.

"They are dead."

"Oh!"

Lyn crossed her arms and bit her lip, trying to stop her tears. They came anyway. Mark tried to get up. A another wave of pain; this one was so bad that he fell back onto the bed, gasping.

"They… died six months ago. Bandits attacked my tribe. Everyone scattered. My father was chieftain, and I tried to lead in his stead. But my tribe… is old-fashioned. They would not follow a woman."

There was a thumping noise and a grunt of pain. Lyn looked up to see that Mark had fallen out of bed and was struggling to stand, his face bright red with the effort.

"So… you've… been… alone here?"

Lyn nodded and wiped her eyes.

"The last battle taught me something. I will learn nothing here. I must travel with you and train, to avenge my fathers death! I would have lost to that bandit leader if you had not thrown that… that… _thing_… at him."

"Speaking of which," said Mark, looking around, "where is the weapon?"

Lyn pointed to the door.

"I did not want to touch it."

Mark hobbled out of the ger and immediately spotted the shotgun next to the other ger. It was surrounded by flecks of blood. Lyn must have buried the bodies.

Mark trudged over and picked up the shotgun. He walked back towards Lyn's ger, picking up fallen shells as he walked. Lyn was wiping her face with a handkerchief.

"No more tears…" she muttered. Mark nodded and carefully put on his shirt and armor, trying not to touch the bruise, then removed all of the first aid kits from his pack and placed them in the duffel bag. He stuffed the shotgun in the bag as well and made sure all of the shells were accounted for; he had 22 left, for he had shot one and could not find another that he had dropped. He then equipped his knife and stood to see Lyn staring at his chest.

"What is it?" asked Mark.

"I saw the bandit hit you, from afar. It was a strike that could have torn through a knight's armor. But that vest blocked it. Is it magic, like your weapon?"

_I might as well get this over with_.

For the next hour, Mark sat on the bed, explaining everything to Lyn, who sat cross-legged on he floor. He told her about the Marines, the magic-man's words, and the fall through the hole. He told her about his weapons and equipment, and what his country was like. However, he made sure to avoid telling her about his family. He did not like talking about his family.

Lyn was a good listener. She didn't interject at any point, though Mark knew by her expression that the story was hard to believe. He broke off his story.

"Oh, come on! Have you ever seen clothes like these? Or a weapon like that?" he pointed to the gun, which was once again propped against the wall.

"So," Lyn said, "Someone needs a tactician. But you're no tactician. You're a… what?"

"Medic," said Mark.

"You don't look crazy…"

"Of course not," said Mark. He pointed to his pale skin. "I look like a vampire."

"…so I think that I will believe you. After all, magic does exist."

"Now, down to business," said Mark, "I have no clue about what continent I'm on. I have no idea where to go. And I have no idea what to do. So help me."

Lyn stood up and brushed imaginary dust off of her skirt. "You are on the continent Elibe. As for what you can do, we should travel together. I can hone my blade and you can hone your skills as a tactician. Fate brought you here, and fate will bring you into something else."

"I don't believe in fate," said Mark, but he stood nevertheless. He pushed his hand into one of the pockets on his belt, making sure his most prized possession was still there, wrapped in black silk.

"One more thing," Mark said with a sheepish expression, "Those bandits attacked me for my clothes. I was wondering if you had something else that I could wear."

Lyn turned, rummaged through a trunk for a few minutes, then pulled out a long, stained, green cloak. She handed it to Mark, who inspected it thoroughly. It was quite heavy, and not altogether clean; it had dirt and grass stains, as well as one stain that looked particularly like blood.

"It's… nice," said Mark, trying not to stare at the bloodstain. Lyn stared back at him.

"It was my father's," she said.

"I'm sorry," said Mark, pointing to the bloodstain, "but what is that?"

"Blood," said Lyn in a monotone voice, "He died in it."

_Great_, thought Mark, but he pulled it on. "I'll give it back, of course."

Lyn simply turned away and readied busied herself with packing for the trip. Mark sighed. In all, this venture was not starting out well. He'd been injured, had killed three people, and now he was wearing a cloak that had had a dead man in it. Not to mention that Lyn was looking very depressed. However, there was nothing else to do but soldier on, come what may.

* * *

His stomach still hurt, and so did his newly-injured ankle. He had had to take the shotgun out of the bag and use it as a cane.

They moved at a painfully slow rate, due to Mark's injuries and the large packs they carried on their backs. Lyn seemed impatient, but Mark was more than happy to take in the scenery as they traveled for days on end.

After a year in the desert, the sea of green, this wonderful sea of tranquility, provided endless wonders. A wind blew through the plains, rippling the grass in constant waves. It was the first time he had heard the sounds of nature, nature uninterrupted by the sounds of mankind. The city, Bulgar, lay in the distance, but it was still a long ways off.

Mark breathed deeply. Never before had he felt better. He had forgotten about everything else. Just him and Lyn, walking on the green ripples of peace. Forget everything. That was the proper thing to do.

The sky was clear, a perfect blue. Perfect. Made him think of her eyes.

Oh shit.

_The north wind doth blow,  
And we shall have snow,_

Oh shit. Don't think about that. Don't think about that.

And what will poor robin do then,  
Poor thing?

Anything but that. Oh wait. Too late.

He'll sit in a barn,  
And keep himself warm,

He couldn't help it. The memories came flooding back, and he languished in a sea of despair. The world went dark.

_And hide his head under his wing,  
Poor thing._

"Mark!"

Mark opened his eyes to see Lyn standing in front of him, looking worried.

"Are you all right?" she cried.

Mark blinked rapidly and bit his lips. His eyes were a little watery.

"Fine," he said, struggling to keep from stammering.

Lyn gestured with her hand. "We are here."

The city was consisted of long, cobblestone streets flanked by wooden houses. The city was one huge open-air market. It was surrounded by high stone walls and a large iron gate, and contained a veritable ocean of people, all of them buying, transferring and selling goods. It was a bit like being on Wall Street or in a Christmas shopping spree, with people yelling, jostling each other, and running around from stall to stall. It was general pandemonium.

Lyn's eyes lit up. Mark nearly smiled. Girls were girls no matter what universe he landed in, and girls liked to shop. At any rate, he was happy that she was feeling better.

They both walked into the city, past the guards flanking the iron gate, and joined the throng. Lyn passed easily through the crowd, but Mark was bumped over and over. Lyn didn't seem to notice until Mark fell with a loud thump and the shotgun bounced off of her boot. She then grabbed his hand and led him to a crowded bench. Seeing Mark's state, the people on the bench quickly shifted to the left, knocking two young woman at the end right off.

Lyn quickly sat Mark down then at next to him, smiling.

"We shall wait for a little while," she laughed, a twinkle in her eye. Mark stared at the ground. The hustle and bustle of the city distressed him. He wished he could go back to the plains.

_And hide his head under his wing,  
Poor thing._

Mark sighed and drew the heavy cloak around him. It made him feel secure, despite the fact that it had had a dead man in it.

They waited for an hour, and the crowd died down. Lyn stood up and pulled Mark to his feet.

They walked through the city, inspecting various stalls. Lyn was particularly interested in the food stalls, and had to drag Mark away from the knives. He simply hobbled back time and time again, and Lyn gave up.

Mark was particularly interested in an ivory whittling knife, and was opening his mouth to ask the price when Lyn came stomping back with a furious expression.

"We're leaving, Mark," she growled, and pulled him away by the back of his cloak. Mark tried to throw the knife back, but Lyn was moving to fast. At least the merchant hadn't noticed it in his hand; he was too preoccupied with laughing at Lyn's fury.

Oh well. Free knife.

Mark turned his head to see two men in colored armor. The one in green armor was arguing vehemently with the other, who was wearing red armor and slamming his head repeatedly into a wall.

"What'd they do?"

Lyn refused to answer.

A few minutes later, they were out of the city. Lyn was walking briskly away with Mark struggling to keep up.

"You did buy food, right?" asked Mark.

Lyn stopped dead and Mark crashed into her.

"I didn't purchase anything!" she gasped, "Did you get anything?"

"I stole a knife, but other than that, no."

Lyn moaned and rested her head in her hands. "Now we will have to go back."

"Fine with me," said Mark, rubbing a stitch in his side. There were more blades to look at. "But let's rest, please. All this walking will aggravate my condition."

"Fine," said Lyn. She sat cross-legged while he sat and stretched his injured ankle in front of him. Mark flipped his shotgun and inspected the barrel, wiping grass from the tip.

This landscape was nice. Not as nice as the plains, but still good. Lots of trees and bushes, with mountains in the distance and a nice little stream. Maybe he could get a fishing pole and fish, or soak his ankle.

Then Mark saw the bandits. It was easy to see they were bandits, they wore clothes similar to the clothes worn by the men who attacked him, and they all had the same large battleaxes. Mark pointed them out.

"_Please_ tell me they're coming for tea."

Lyn leapt to her feet, and Mark pushed himself up with the shotgun. He held it loosely at his side and flicked the safety. _This_ time it was fully loaded, six shells in the chamber.

Lyn placed a hand on her sword as the men drew near. They all whistled appreciatively, and she tensed. Mark didn't move an inch, looking as though he was on a simple garden stroll. His old calmness was coming back.

"Well, aren't you the pretty one?" chortled the lead bandit, licking his lips. "You're Lyndis, right?"

Mark glanced at Lyn, who was looking shocked. Yep. She was definitely a Lyndis.

"Pity I have to kill you," said the bandit, slapping the flat of his axe onto his hand.

Lyn unsheathed her sword and Mark brought his the shotgun to his shoulder. For some reason, he was feeling a bit more callous, and could only wonder what their faces would look like once their leader had been blow apart.

"Hold!"

Mark, Lyn and the bandits turned as one as two horsemen came galloping in. Mark recognized them as the knights from the city.

The green-armored knight pulled on his horse's reins and the horse reared. The bandits backed away, but the move lost its impressiveness as the green knight toppled backwards from the saddle, landing in a heap upon the ground. He immediately leapt to his feet, unfazed, and brandished a lance.

"Knights!" the man spat the word out as though it was a curse. The bandits fled. Mark watched them leave, but they stopped in the distance and waited, like a pack of hyenas waiting for sick zebra to die.

"No way out," said the green-armored knight, "We'll have to fight. Stand clear, my angel-winged beauty!"

Mark scratched his nose. So that was why Lyn had been angry.

The red-armored knight raised his sword in salute. "My name is Kent, and this is my companion, Sain. We are both knights of Caelin, and will assist you in your fight. I see that you can wield a blade, milady, but what about your friend?"

All eyes turned to Mark, who had flicked the safety on his shotgun back on and was using it once more as a cane.

"I'm a tactician," he said, glumly.

"A tactician? We'll follow your lead, then," said Kent as Sain re-mounted his horse.

"Lead?" Mark scoffed. "Just run them over."

* * *

Bandit number three was feeling queasy. The two knights had charged two of his allies. One had gotten run over, and the other had been impaled on a lance. He turned and ran, knowing that he could not match up against the knights, who were now charging towards his leader, and he spotted the man, the one with the strange walking stick and strange hat, standing next to a small patch of bushes. He was holding a vicious-looking knife, but seemed weak. The bandit grinned. Perhaps he could get an easy kill and leave. Perhaps that walking stick could sell for some money. He approached him.

"Evening!" called the man, "Would you like some candy?"

The bandit grinned. This man was definitely a fool.

"No?" asked the man, "Then I'll just eat some myself! I will! Watch me!"

The bandit raised his axe and charged. The strange man seemed preoccupied with eating a bar that appeared to be made of chocolate. The bandit closed in, grinning with the knowledge of an easy victory.

Then the sword exploded through his chest. Someone had stabbed him in the back.

"_And he said goodbye_…" sang the strange man, and the bandit fell to the ground. The world went dark, and he knew nothing more.

"Well done," said Mark. Lyn wiped her sword on the grass. Mark looked over to the bandit boss, just in time to see him being lifted into the air by the force of Sain's sword stroke. "That Sain character is pretty strong."

Lyn sniffed.

"Quite."

Mark shrugged and removed his boonie cap, scratching his head.

"Just 'cause he's a flirt doesn't mean you have to hate him," said Mark, "He reminds me of one of my old friends."

"I don't hate—" began Lyn, but Mark cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"They're coming back."

Kent and Sain came riding back, Sain's spear held high in victory. Mark lifted his shotgun in a similar salute. Lyn however, looked peeved.

"Explain, please," she said.

"So, let me get this straight. I am now involved in some sort of crazy political power-play and will now march to the castle in which the crazy political power-player resides. Sounds bad."

"Why?" asked Sain.

"Well, firstly," said Mark, "Lyn's forces consist of two knights, a swordswoman, and a man with a gimpy leg. Lyn's granduncle could send something against us, and I don't want to fight against trained soldiers."

"So, what do you suggest?" asked Kent, moving his horse closer to Mark.

"We need to get some help. Maybe garner support from other cities? Raid an armory?"

Sain snapped his fingers. "Araphen!"

Kent nodded. "Araphen. Marquess Araphen has been a friend of Marquess Caelin for a long time."

"We'll need supplies," said Lyn.

They went back into the city. Each person took one hundred coins and wandered off, Sain with Mark, and Kent with Lyn. They met back at the center of the city at sundown.

"We have spent all of our gold, but we have got a lot of food," said Lyn, Kent's horse laden with supplies. Sain's horse was also loaded down with food and weaponry.

"We still have most of ours, my beauteous flower," said Sain happily, holding up a bag full of coins, "It's all thanks to Mark here."

Mark shrugged. "Those merchants are bloodsuckers. I simply asked them for a price and offered half."

"I like him," said Sain.

* * *

A little later, they were walking past the stream and fallen bodies, on their way to Araphen. The horses carried all of the supplies. Sain tried to flirt with Lyn on several occasions, but was now talking non-stop to Mark. Mark was slightly annoyed, but found that Sain could be a wealth of information if one asked the right questions. He learned much about the aristocracy and Caelin army, as well as going-ons in the rest of the continent.

Mark didn't know how he felt. He was happy that he finally had a purpose, but was apprehensive about taking on Caelin. If Sain and Kent were anything to go by, the soldiers of Caelin would be very strong.

But he shrugged and soldiered on.

Come what may.

* * *

Well, that's it for the second chapter. Please review. Christmas break is starting, so chapter publication may speed up. However, when Christmas break ends, I will have the misfortune of my final exams (stupid, messed up International Baccalaureate schedules putting exams after the break). So, updates may be sporadic. I apologize in advance.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, here's chapter three. I don't have much to say right now.

Chapter 3: Apologetic Irony

* * *

"—and then he fell out of the tree."

Lyn smirked as Mark sighed. Kent turned as red as his armor and looked away.

"All that for an apple!" guffawed Sain.

They had been traveling for two days, getting closer and closer to Araphen. It had been a pleasant journey, with no bandit attacks. Sain provided plenty of entertainment, and Mark's condition was on the road to improvement; he no longer needed the shotgun to walk and the pain in his side had subsided to a dull throb. Mark was also performing some psychological self-maintenance.

He had not performed very well against the bandits on the plains. Sure, he had killed two, but if Lyn hadn't shown up, he'd have been killed.

And so, he was prepping himself for combat. He replayed his close-quarters sessions with the Marines over and over in his mind, recalling old grapples and gouges. Also, he remembered the old days, those terrible old days, when he had learned how to use knives. The circumstances in which those knives were used, however, were best left forgotten.

He was squeamish about attacking people, for had spent too long learning how to save lives to now start taking them away. But he would have to be braver. Perhaps even to the point of callousness. If he was to start leading a small band of adventures (Mark had a sneaking suspicion that the band would grow bigger) he would have to buck up.

Mark snapped out of his revere and noted an odd structure. He pointed at it.

"Wazzat?"

Three houses, two crumbly castles, and what looked like a cathedral lay in the distance. Lyn gasped in happy surprise, then turned to Mark, her eyes shining. Mark raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Do you mind if we make a quick stop?"

Mark raised the eyebrow higher. "_You're_ the noble. So, wazzat?"

"What?"

Mark sighed. "What is that?"

Lyn smiled. "It's a shrine for a sacred relic. People go there to pray for safe passage."

"Quaint!" cried Sain. Kent groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"So," said Mark, a strange expression on his face, "You're going to pray to your god. May I stay here? Please?"

"Mark, why—"

"Help!"

An old woman ran in, her skirts flapping. Mark sighed. Something was wrong, and no doubt that stupid church would be behind it.

God, he hated churches.

The north wind doth blow

The old woman stopped in front of Lyn and placed her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Lyn waited impatiently.

"Men…" she said, "Thieves… The relic…"

Lyn gave a start.

"There are going to steal the Mani Katti! I cannot let that happen! We must stop them!"

"Leave, please," Kent said to the old woman, kindly, "We'll take care of this."

"So you're telling me," said Mark, watching the old woman retreat, "that we're going to involve ourselves in this affair. We should leave."

"Mark! We have to help them!" cried Lyn.

"Well," he said, frowning, "We can't afford any delays. Lundgren going to try something at Caelin. I just know it. We need to get support, meaning we're leaving _now_."

Mark began to feel a little angry. Didn't she notice that churches distressed him? But no, she was caught up with rescuing some "holy" relic.

Kent walked over to Mark and stood, glaring in Mark's eyes. Mark looked surprised, then glared back.

"If milady wishes it," said Kent, slowly, "it shall be done."

Mark sneered. "_Oooh_! That's put me in my place, hasn't it?"

He stepped forward and stuck his face right up to Kent's.

"You mindless pawn. I'll bet you can't even function without orders from a superior. Here's an order: go—"

"Mark!" cried Lyn, her expression aghast, as Sain looked on apprehensively. Kent was livid; the veins in his neck were visible. Mark blinked and came to his senses.

How odd. He rarely got angry. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had gotten angry. He had no right to yell at Kent.

Mark bowed his head. "I apologize. I… I'm sorry Kent. My anger should not be directed at you."

Kent calmed down a tad, but Lyn still looked confused.

"What anger? You were fine—"

"Let's just get this over with," interrupted Mark. He pointed at Sain, who paled.

"See those houses in the distance? Get some information from the inhabitants. I want to know everything, down to the number of atoms in that shrine."

"Atoms? What are—?"

"Sain, please, just go."

"It's interesting terrain," said Mark, "What are those mounds?"

"They are building something," said Lyn, her sword held loosely at her side. Mark motioned to Kent and Sain.

"Well, good knights, I want you to break down that wall."

"What?" asked Sain, incredulous. Mark shrugged.

"You know. Make a _grand_ entrance. Scare them."

_Not to mention that damaging a church will be most satisfying_.

"Lyn," Mark continued, "Cross those dirt piles and engage anything on the other side. Take extra vulneraries."

Lyn nodded and set off running towards the hills. Mark and the knights watched her go.

"So, what will you do?" asked Kent, his tone civil.

Mark shrugged.

"I'm going to sit in those ruins. Trust me on this."

Kent and Sain set off at a quick trot, looking bewildered. Mark paused.

"Kent?"

Kent turned his horse around and stared.

"I—"

"Don't worry about it," said the red knight.

Kent turned again and urged his horse into a gallop. Sain was already hacking away at the wall with a lance.

Mark sighed and looked towards the castles. A bandit was approaching the ruins from the north. Probably trying to attack Kent and Sain from behind.

Mark removed his cloak and let it fall to the ground, revealing his armor and weaponry in their full splendor. It was an impressive gesture, and Mark felt oddly pleased.

It was time to try his hand at psychological warfare. He took of his boonie and threw it on the cloak.

If he had ever suggested this tactic in one of his military classes, the instructors would have applauded his ingenuity then given him a D+. Mark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was not going to enjoy this.

However, it was a good thing that he had taken acting lessons. His sessions with his vocal coach wouldn't hurt either.

* * *

The bandit picked his way through the ruins, gripping a handaxe. He was going to attack those cavaliers from behind. He never missed with his handaxe, though he had always had trouble getting it to return to his hand.

He wasn't worried. He'd take care of the red one with a throw, then face down the green with his main axe. Glass would get the sword, but _he_ would get the glory. It wasn't common for a simple bandit to face down two Lycian Knights.

Of course, he stopped dreaming when he saw a shape detach itself from the wall. It was a man. His clothing was the same color as the ruins, so he had been well hidden. He was grinning, but it was not a happy grin. Not at all. It was the most evil grin the bandit had ever seen. It would have made the devil stand up and applaud, if he could see it.

For some reason, this man made the bandit feel uneasy. The man held a strange stick in his left hand, and a long knife in his right. His hair was jet black, and his skin as pale as snow. And those eyes. His eyes were gray, the color of steel, and they stared right through him.

"_Hello_," said the man. His voice sent shivers up the bandit's spine.

"Wh-who're you?"

The man grinned even more widely. "_Oh, I don't know_. _Do you know_? _I'm sure that _you _know_."

He slowly turned his head until his eyes were perpendicular to the ground. He giggled, and the bandit fell back a step.

"_Would you like to play a game_?" asked the man, his voice rising in pitch.

"Umm…"

"_Play with me_."

The bandit began to back away. The strange creature started walking forward.

"_Play with me_," ordered the creature again.

"I've… got to go…" mumbled the bandit, sweat running down his face.

The creature stopped and snapped his head back up to normal. His eyes opened, eyelids stretched to their limits, and he dropped the strange stick to the ground. He tightened his grip on the knife and grinned even wider, opening his teeth ever so slightly. Saliva dripped from his mouth.

"_PLAY WITH ME_!"

The creature crouched and charged. A guttural screech escaped from his lips as his boots pounded across the stones. The bandit stood in terror, then quickly tossed his handaxe at the monster.

The creature cackled with insane laughter as the axe connected with his chest and bounced off at an angle. He raised his knife as the bandit struggled to pull his main axe from his belt.

"_FEED_!"

He plunged the knife down into the bandit's shoulder. The bandit tried to scream, but it came out as a gurgled gasp. He dropped to one knee as the creature applied pressure to the knife, pushing it down.

The being then ripped the knife out and twirled around and around like a dancer, his arms held parallel to the ground. Droplets of blood sprinkled the bandit's face.

He stopped whirling and glared at the bandit, his face no longer gleeful. It was now twisted into an expression of abject hatred.

"_LAUGH WITH ME_!"

The bandit screamed in horror, falling over backwards and shielding his face.

"_YOU'RE NOT LAUGHING_!"

The last thing the bandit saw was the knife flying directly at his face.

* * *

Mark stood over the bandit, his knife imbedded in the bandit's forehead. He curled over and entered a violent coughing fit. That voice took a lot out of him.

He felt terrible for the bandit. Poor guy, scared like that. It would have been better to just shoot him, but he needed to ration the shells. He wouldn't be getting any ammunition in a medieval setting.

He coughed several more times, wiped drool off his vest, that wonderful, life-saving vest, and pulled the knife out of the bandit's skull. He then reached over and gently closed the bandit's eyes, which were frozen in terror. He would never forget those eyes.

Was it really an act? Or had he truly become a monster? Whatever the case, Mark felt as though he had lost a part of himself. He couldn't exactly describe the feeling, but it felt as though he was less deserving of being alive.

* * *

Sain and Kent were finally making some progress. It looked as though the wall was almost destroyed; it would crumble soon. Sain wiped his brow.

"Are you all right, Kent?" he asked.

"Fine," said Kent, "Why do you ask?"

Sain shrugged, then rubbed his aching shoulders.

"Mark gave you quite a tongue-lashing. You sure he's entirely sane?"

"He's fine," said Kent, "I know his type. He was not angry at me."

"His type?"

Kent nodded, wiping dust off his lance. The tip was ruined, no longer sharp. "He's got something bottled up inside him. It's best not to wonder."

Sain shrugged again, then grinned.

"You know, he had a point. You need to loosen up. Disobey protocol, for once"

Kent shook his head. "Get back to work. Milady Lyndis will have no doubt taken care of the other men. We need to reach her as soon as possible."

Sain laughed. "Mindless pawn indeed, my boon companion."

"You _have_ been busy," said Mark as he stepped through the hole in the wall. The enemy leader had been impaled and pinned to the wall by Sain's lance. "You just gonna leave him there?"

Lyn was talking with some old priest. Mark leaned away, as though proximity to the man would heighten his chances of getting the Ebola Virus. He hated priests more than he hated churches.

The priest turned and walked towards an altar. Lyn whirled around and clasped her hands in from of her, her eyes gleaming.

"He's going to let me touch the blade."

Mark gave a start.

"It's a knife?"

"It's a sword."

"Oh." _Darn_.

Mark leaned against a wall, all interest lost. The priest removed a sword from the altar and carried it slowly to Lyn. She grasped it, slowly but eagerly. Mark's jaw dropped open. He turned to Kent, who was looking embarrassed. Probably because he had brought a horse into a church.

"Kent?"

"Yes?" asked Kent.

"Do my eyes loom strange?"

Kent was confused. "No, but they _are_ an interesting color."

"'Cause I swear that sword's glowing."

Lyn gasped, her face bathed in the sword unearthly light. The priest looked at her through heavy lidded eyes.

"It's the power of the spirits," he said in a weak voice, "They have chosen you. You are meant to wield the Mani Katti."

Lyn's eyes widened. "N-no!"

She tried to push the sword back into the priests arms, but the man stood passively.

"You require proof? Draw the sword."

Lyn looked at the sword nervously, then grasped the handle and pulled it out in one swift motion. Mark fought down a strange urge to cheer.

The priest gasped and dropped to his knees, his face and hands lifted to the heavens. Lyn dropped beside him, concerned. The priest was crying.

"I never," he sobbed, "I never hoped to meet the wielder of the Mani Katti in my life." He bent over, his head placed at Lyn's feet, but Lyn grabbed him and pushed him upright, her face bright red.

"Go my child," continued the man, "Go, and face your destiny head on."

They left the priest in the church. He had collapsed on the altar out of pure joy.

"It's a nice blade," said Mark.

"Nice?" cried Sain, "It's the Mani Katti! A blade with no equal!"

"Please," said Lyn, "I would not like to talk of it. Not now."

"Fine. Permission to go stab something, milady?"

All eyes turned to Mark, who grinned. "You know. Go hunting. Find a nice rabbit. Wait… what's with the stares?"

"Mark… You're _smiling_," said Lyn, her expression one of awe.

Mark immediately ceased grinning. "Smiling makes my face hurt."

He about-faced and marched off towards a patch of woods. Kent bowed to Lyn.

"We shall set camp, milady."

"Fine," said Lyn. Kent began to unpack the sleeping rolls as Sain rode off to find some wood for a fire. Lyn sat down on the grass an sighed.

He looked so much better when he smiled.

* * *

"Rejoice, you wee, timorous beastie!" Mark yelled as he dove. His hands closed around the rabbit's torso. It tried to jump away, but it was too late.

Mark fell to the ground. His stomach wound launched a wave of pain, but it was manageable, and it quickly passed. He had just caught a rabbit with his bare hands. On the awesome scale, that merited at _least_ a seven.

The rabbit squirmed, so Mark shoved it under his armpit and pinned it there. Rabbits could scratch as deep as a cat, and Mark did not want yet another wound.

"Poor thing."

Mark jumped and dropped rabbit that he had been tracking for ten minutes. It disappeared into the undergrowth.

The magic-man was back, walking through the trees towards Mark. He was wearing a simple, yet clean, tunic. Mark gave him a mock salute.

"Greetings, fine sir," Mark said in a foppish tone of voice.

The man smiled. "Well, aren't you going to attack me? Seek retribution for getting you into this mess?"

Mark smirked. "No way. I've read the adventure novels. I'll just run into an invisible wall and you'll have a laugh at my expense."

The man put his hands on his hips. "My friend, you are mistaken. I am unprotected."

Mark reached into his a pocket on his belt, pulled out _The Art of War_, and threw it. It hit an invisible wall and bounced off.

"_Harr de harr harr_, magic-man."

The man smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "So, how are you?"

"Smashing," said Mark, "Have you ever been hit in the gut with an axe?"

"Can't say I have," said the magic-man.

"I can change that."

The man stopped smiling. He looked a little sad.

"Come on, Mr. Bristow. I'm just trying to have a conversation. Could you be civil, please?"

"Civility?" cried Mark, "Why in the _world_ would you expect civility from me?"

"I say again, please be civil."

"Or what?" countered Mark, "You'll transport me into Teletubby land?"

"Oh," said the magic-man, "but _they're _not in trouble."

"Yep, no pyrotechnics on _that_ show."

Mark leaned against a tree and raised an eyebrow that somehow managed to be quizzical and rude at the same time.

"So, is this why I'm here? An inheritance dispute? You shoulda' sent a lawyer, magic-man."

"It'll all be revealed in time," said the magic-man, "Anyhow, you're doing a fine job right now, but you need to show a more stable front. Soldiers will not follow a leader than they deem unstable. _Too_ unstable, anyway, for all military leaders are unstable."

Mark sighed. "Is that all?"

The magic-man shrugged. "You're being difficult, so I guess we'll end here. You should be more polite to people. It'll help you survive."

The man turned to leave, but Mark called after him.

"Ha! What do you care about me dying? You've probably got a whole list of people to take my place if I die."

The man stopped dead in his tracks and half turned his head. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Mark shrugged and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

"I guess its my lot in life. Once a pawn, always a pawn. A worthless chess piece for some grand design."

The magic-man sighed and shook his head.

"Mark, once a pawn gets to the other side of the board, it can become a queen."

The man started to walk away again, but Mark still had another thing to ask.

"I would like to stop calling you magic-man. What should I call you? Give me some suggestions... Preferably something vulgar."

The man continued his walk away from Mark.

"Koheleth."

* * *

Lyn, Sain, and Kent were all rather shocked when Mark came out of the woods dragging a mutilated deer carcass.

"I defeated it in horn-to-knife combat."

Night fell, and they all waited patiently as Sain prepared the venison. After half an hour of slow roasting, Mark decided to go for a walk. Lyn joined him.

The place looked nice at night. Numerous stars dotted the sky, though the moon was nowhere to be seen. A cool breeze blew through the area, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of fresh air. Fresher than any air in Iraq, or even the U.S.

Plus, the hole in the wall of the church looked very nice.

"Mark, about today…" said Lyn. She trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

"It won't happen again. Its just that… I've never liked churches. Or clergy."

"Why?" asked Lyn. Mark shook his head.

"I'm sorry, milady, but I do not want to talk about that."

Lyn smiled and laid a land on Mark's elbow. "You don't need to call me that."

"What about Kent and Sain?"

Lyn smiled. "I could get used to having subjects."

Mark shrugged and changed the subject.

"So, you've just gotten the best blade in the world. Congrats."

"The perfect birthday present," said Lyn.

"It's your birthday?" asked Mark. Lyn nodded, but her expression suddenly turned sour.

"I'm worried, Mark. That sword… why did it choose me?"

"It's sentient, right? Has spirits in it? It deemed you worthy, so you deserve to wield it. I saw it glowing. You saw it glowing. It chose you."

Fir some reason, Lyn bit her lip.

"Stop it! I… I am nothing special!"

Mark laid a hand on her shoulder. "Well, maybe it just likes you. Some weapons feel comfortable in your hands, right? Maybe this one feels comfortable with you."

Lyn relaxed. "Maybe you are right."

Mark shrugged. "You're lucky. Take my shotgun, for instance. I hate it. And I'm pretty sure that if _it_ had a spirit, it would hate me too."

Lyn giggled. "Your weapon does not hate you. Remember our first battle together? It flew out of your hands and hit the bandit leader. It saved my life."

"That shows that it likes _you_."

Lyn giggled again. "Silly! If I had died, you would have died too. You were out of… shells, right?"

Mark gave a noncommittal shrug and continued walking. Lyn stayed by his side.

"And remember Bulgar? When you fell, it hit my ankle. I wouldn't have noticed you if it had not hit me."

Mark cocked his head. "I guess. Is it a common practice to name weapons?"

"Only if they are very strong," said Lyn, "You should name yours."

"Fine," said Mark. He raised the shotgun above his head, holding it loosely in both hands, and dropped to his knees.

"Hark, ye gods of yore, splendor, and a great many other things!" roared Mark as Lyn snorted, "I stand before thee! Before thine eyes lies the fruit of a hundreds years of military technology! A weapon of raw brutality! A weapon so mighty that the mere _mention_ of it makes the bravest women cry and the strongest men wet themselves several times over! A weapon called… the _shotgun_! Or the _boomstick_! Or the _fowling piece_! Or the _scattergun_. Or the—"

"Get on with it." said Lyn, smirking at the ridiculousness of it all.

"I… fine! And thus, before thine eyes, I christen this weapon… Apologetic Irony!"

Lyn raised an eyebrow. "_Apologetic Irony_?"

Mark nodded and stood, clipping the shotgun to his back. "Seems fitting."

Lyn waited for a few long moments, waiting for Mark to elaborate. He refused and simply walked back towards camp, where Sain had burned the venison.

* * *

Well, that's it for today…


	4. Chapter 4

Hoorah! Reviews. My dream come true. Thanks muchly for telling me about that forum, Aayvee.

Chapter 4: Of Androphobia and Broken Dreams

* * *

Apologetic Irony was starting to feel unapologetically heavy. Mark had to keep switching the duffel bag from his left hand to his right.

They had traveled non-stop for a whole day, and Sain had run out of things to talk about. Mark kept his spirits up by pondering various mysteries of the universe.

What was the best thing before sliced bread? If the universe is expanding, what is it expanding into? Does killing time damage eternity? Why is the third hand on a watch called the second hand? Why do psychics ask for your name?

They weren't exactly the most intelligent thoughts he had ever thought, but they kept him entertained. Lyn told him that they would be reaching a small town in a short while, and he looked forward to the event. He would find an inn and sleep in a real bed.

Not that sleeping outside was bad. He'd slept in worse conditions. He had once fallen asleep on top of an armored tank. He'd woken up with an aching back and a camel spider on his face. Furthermore, someone had stolen his iPod.

His dreams of a nice bed were shattered when they came upon the village.

"Oh, dear."

It sort of reminded him of the time he was in a mission in Southern Iraq. His squad had come under heavy fire inside of an empty suburban area, and had called in support from the brass. The brass had sent in an entire tank battalion, which had been operating nearby. The Army, bored, had gone ballistic, shooting everything in site.

_This_ town was similarly destroyed, but on a _much_ smaller scale. Buildings were scorched, some were still on fire, and rubble dotted the ground. The streets were empty, but Mark could see a few bodies.

Kent, Lyn, and Sain looked horrified.

"Doesn't… can't the Marquess help them?" asked Sain, staring at a burning building.

"Taliver bandits," growled Lyn.

Mark looked quizzically to Lyn.

"They are the same group that massacred my tribe."

"Oh dear," said Mark again, "Are you… uh, sure it's them?"

Lyn nodded. "Only the Taliver bandits possess the capacity for this kind of cruelty."

She whirled around, her hair slapping Mark across the face.

"That is why I wanted to travel with you. Someday, I shall become stronger, and go to their mountains."

Her voice became ugly. "Someday, I shall kill every last one of them."

"When you decide to go, bring us with you," said Sain, pointing to himself and Kent. Kent nodded in agreement.

"Sain… Kent… Thank you…"

Lyn looked to Mark, who nodded.

"You saved my life. I shall do whatever you ask."

Lyn grinned and leapt forward, hugging Mark. He tensed and refused to move.

Someone screamed. It was a very high-pitched scream, and Mark winced.

Wonderful. Another worthless invalid in need of rescuing.ff

Lyn looked shocked, and dashed away. Mark and the knights exchanged confused glances before hurrying after her.

They rounded a corner and spotted Lyn yelling at a bunch of men. One was holding a women in a white uniform around the waist, a dagger at her throat. A winged horse stood next to them, rolling its eyes in terror.

Winged horse?

Wow. But Mark shook his head to clear his thoughts. In a land of weird hair colors he should have been expecting something like a pegasus. But anyway, he had more important matters to consider.

Hostage situation. There was only one way to deal with a hostage situation.

_BLAM!_

The knights' horses reared up, whinnying shrilly. Kent managed to retain his seat, but Sain fell off of his horse, cursing. A flock of crows rose into the air as one, cawing wildly, while the Pegasus spread its wings and took to the skies, yanking the reins out of one of the captor's hand. Most importantly, the lead bandit dropped the girl, who quickly ran and hid behind Lyn.

_Crisis averted_, thought Mark as he watched the red shotgun shell fall to the ground. He collapsed Apologetic Irony's butt and clipped the gun to his back, underneath the cloak, then walked over to the group, where Lyn was talking with the young woman.

"So, you are all right? They didn't hurt you, Florina?"

"N-no," said Florina, shivering. She screeched when Mark appeared at her shoulder, and Mark stuck his fingers in his ears.

"For Pete's sake, woman!"

"I take it that you two are acquaintances," said Kent. Lyn nodded.

"This is Florina., a pegasus knight in training from Ilia."

Mark offered a hand, but Florina shied away.

"She's uncomfortable around men."

"I sincerely hope your pegasus comes back," said Mark, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Florina still looked scared.

"_Cough_-BANDITS-_cough_!" Sain said.

Mark stepped forward and bowed. He _really _hoped to avoid a confrontation.

"Greetings, my good sirs. My name is Mark Bristow, and I am honored to meet you. Could you please tell me why you were accosting this poor woman?"

The lead bandit stepped forward. He looked a little more cultured than his fellows, and his axe looked much better-made than those of his allies.

"She stepped on my friend!"

Lyn turned to Florina. "You landed on them?"

"Y-yes," said Florina.

"Did you apologize?"

"Many, many times!" cried Florina, her eyes welling up with tears, "B-but they wouldn't l-listen!"

"You're not injured," said Mark, "Can't you just let her go? Here, I've got some candy. Take that instead."

He dug into his pockets and pulled out a chocolate bar.

The lead bandit grinned. "The girl comes with us, by force if necessary."

He motioned to one of his fellows, who stepped forward, reaching for Florina.

"Now now, missy, come to— _yeulp!_"

The bandit gasped and clawed at his throat, through which Lyn had stuck the Mani Katti. The bandit leader roared and raised an axe, but Mark sprang into action, his gloved hands held in front of him in a boxer's stance.

He lashed out with a quick left jab, hitting the bandit's nose. The man reeled in shock as Mark brought forth his right hand in a colossal hook. The bandit fell back into the arms of two of his subordinates, his nose bleeding.

"Yar… run!"

The bandits turned and fled. Mark turned to Lyn.

"That concludes negotiations. I'm sorry that I fluffed it."

"Mark! That was—"

"Amazing? It looked better than it really was. Hurt like the _devil_."

He rubbed his knuckles.

"What did you do to make them drop her?" inquired Kent, "What was that noise?"

Mark sighed and looked to Lyn. "Could you explain, please? I'm tired."

* * *

Mark dozed in an abandoned hammock while Lyn explained the situation to the three knights. It didn't matter if they believed the story or not. They obeyed Lyn, and as long as Lyn believed his story he would be okay.

He was feeling unexplainably tired. Perhaps it had something to do with all the walking they had been doing. Whatever the case, he needed a little shut-eye.

He fell asleep.

* * *

The doctor checked his charts one last time, then sat down on a stool. He had red hair, flecked with gray. He was in his sixties. He sighed and stared sadly at the shirtless young man sitting on the hospital bed before him.

"_Listen Mark," said the doctor, feeling terrible, "I'm inclined to ignore your uncle's wishes, and prevent you from joining up."_

_The young man in front of his gave a strangled gasp and sat up straighter. The doctor rubbed his eyes. Here it came. _

"_No!" cried Mark, "You don't understand! I need_ _to join! I've got nothing else!"_

_The doctor wore a long suffering expression. He _knew_ that he was going to run into trouble._

"_There are _many_ other things you can do, my boy."_

_Mark stood up and pointed to his chest._

"_Can you see me as a firefighter? A policeman? Can you see me as a telemarketer? I can't be any of those things! Can you see me as any of those things? Can you?"_

_The doctor stood up as well, towering over the young man._

"_Well, I sure as _hell_ can't see you doing this job!" he yelled, slapping his clipboard with his forearm. _

"_I know I'm not strong!" Mark yelled, "But I'll get better! I'll go jogging! I'll lift weights! I'll do pushups every day!"_

"_Your body is fine!" said the doctor. This boy was frustrating him. "It's your mind that I'm worried about! Mark, you're an emotional wreck!"_

_Mark shut up and was silent for a few long moments. The doctor sighed yet again._

"_Look, son…"_

"_My uncle ordered you," said the boy, seething in rage, "You need to obey him."_

"_Actually, I don't," said the doctor, "He's abusing his power. The only reason I haven't turned him in is that I have quite a bit of respect for the man."_

"_Then trust in his judgement and let me join!"_

_The doctor sighed and sat down on the stool. He looked like the loneliest man in the world._

"_My job's on the line here, son."_

_Mark remained silent._

"_You'll need to call me once a month. For counseling."_

"_Fine," said Mark, "Anything."_

_The doctor leaned back, resting his head against the wall. He hoped that wouldn't come to regret this._

"_Welcome to the Navy."_

* * *

Lyn and the three knights walked through the village. They had found no survivors so far.

"It's hard to believe, oh wondrous lady of peerless beauty."

"I realize that," said Lyn, letting the flirtation slide, "But his clothes and weapons are a testament to his story."

"Whatever the case, it doesn't matter," said Kent, "The top priority is to get you to your grandfather."

"Hey look, a townhouse!" said Sain, pointing to a relatively untouched structure.

The group walked over to the house. Lyn knocked three times on the door.

"Go away!"

"You've taken everything! We have no more gold! Please, just leave us alone."

"Wait!" called Lyn, "We are not bandits, we are here to help!"

"Wait here," said a quiet voice.

The group heard the sound of bolts being slide back. The door opened and a small, brown-haired man stepped out, a bow slung on his back. He stared at the group for a few long moments before his face broke into a large, cheery grin.

"Hi there! I'm Wil! How do you do?"

He walked over to the group, grabbed Lyn's hand, and proceeded to pump it vigorously.

"You don't look like bandits. That's a relief. If you were, I'd be dead. But who's ever heard of a female bandit, eh?

"My name is Lyn," said Lyn, wrenching her arm from Wil's grasp, "We were just passing through when we noticed those men. We drove them off."

Wil's grin faded.

"No, I'm afraid you didn't, Lyn. Those bandits are a stubborn lot. They'll be back with reinforcements, and soon."

"Are you sure?" asked Kent, moving his horse closer. Wil nodded rapidly.

"Yep, very sure."

Kent turned to Lyn. "Well, milady?"

"Get ready to fight. You too, Florina. We'll meet them here."

Wil raised his hand as though he was a child in school.

"Excuse me, but I would like to help. I'm an archer, as you can see, and I'm a pretty good shot."

"All right then," said Lyn. "First off, go to the east. There you will find a pale, sad-looking man sleeping in a hammock. Wake him up and bring him here."

"Okey-dokey! Will do!"

Wil dashed off as Kent gave a small smile.

"Excitable fellow, isn't he?"

Lyn nodded, grinning.

"Mark will love him."

* * *

Mark felt someone shaking him and woke up. The world was blurry, but he could make out that someone was standing over him. He rubbed his eyes blearily and blinked. The world came into focus, and Mark saw a young man leaning over him, his face inches from his own.

"HOLY _SHIT_!"

The man jumped back as Mark thrashed out wildly. The hammock flipped and deposited Mark onto the ground in a jumbled heap.

"Hi! I'm Wil! Your friend, Lyn, told me to wake you up! So wake up! Wait, what's your name?"

"M-Mark," said Mark, gasping and holding a hand over his heart, which was operating in overdrive, "Don't ever do that to someone, Wil!"

"Come on! Bandits are coming!"

Wil grabbed Mark's hand and pulled him to his feet, then dashed off to the west as Mark tried to keep up. They met up with Lyn in the courtyard, outside of the townhouse.

"The bandits are back," said Lyn. She stepped to the side, showing Sain standing over the body of a fallen archer.

"Wonderful," said Mark, "Has Florina's pegasus come back yet?"

"Yes, it has," said Kent.

"Great. There's another towncenter north of here, I think. I'll need her to fly over there to see if we can get some more support."

Lyn looked apprehensive. "Are you sure—"

"She's a knight in training, right? She needs to learn _quite_ a bit in the bravery department. So I'm sending her out over that wall." He turned to Florina, who was staring at her feet, looking ashamed, "Go!"

Florina squeaked and shook her pegasus's reins. The winged creature rose into the air with a flurry of feathers.

Mark motioned to Kent and Sain, who approached.

"There's only one way into the courtyard," said Mark, pointing at the small entrance, "Guard it. Wil, go with them."

Kent and Sain set off at once, but Wil looked to Lyn, confused.

"_He's_ the commander?"

"He's my tactician."

"A tactician?" Wil looked even more confused. "What would a band of mercenaries be doing with a tactician?"

"Mercenaries?" Mark snorted in bemusement. "I'll have you know, Lady Lyndis here is the granddaughter of Marquess Caelin. We are her _personal_ escort."

"You're Marquess Caelin's—" Wil sunk into a deep bow. "Milady! I am honored to serve you!"

He dashed off. Mark shook his head.

"He's just a big kid. I had a cousin like him."

"He's all right," said Lyn.

"Never said that I didn't like him," said Mark.

Their was a shriek. Florina toppled out of the sky, her lance snapped in half. She was clutching a large bag filled with what sounded like jangling coins.

"Swordsman!" she gasped at Lyn. She noted Mark's presence and slid of her pegasus, hiding behind it. "T-t-t-t-t-the p-people at t-the t-t-town—"

"Yes, they gave you some money," said Mark, impatient, "Now drop it and sweep the area from above. I want to know how many enemies we are facing. Hurry up, girl!"

Florina dropped the bag and took to the air. Lyn turned on Mark.

"Can you not be nicer to her?" she asked, angry.

"She's a _knight_! She should grow a spine!"

"She is afraid for a reason! She… She has had a rough childhood!" said Lyn, poking a finger into Mark's chest.

"Like me," said Mark. He looked crestfallen.

"What did you say?" asked Lyn, her expression softening. But Mark didn't elaborate. He simply looked to the ground for a while, then looked into Lyn's eyes.

"Fine. I'll treat her better. But you cannot deny that her job is not one for the weak-of-heart."

Lyn nodded.

"Give her time. She shall grow and become stronger."

"If you say so," said Mark, "But let's go to the front."

Predictably, they found Wil and the knights surrounded by dead bandits. Sain and Kent were currently in combat with a swordsman who was skillfully working a huge sword, fending off attacks from both knights. Wil couldn't get a bead on him; Sain and Kent were blocking his shots.

"Go on, Lyn!" yelled Mark. "Find Florina, get her information, and kill the leader! I'll help Sain and Kent!"

Lyn ran off. Mark circled around a large building and came up behind the bandit, who was preoccupied with combating the knights. He drove his knife deep into the bandit's back, into his kidney. The bandit cried out and arched his back, trying to grasp the knife, then succumbed to a slash across the chest, courtesy of Kent's blade.

Mark pulled his knife out and turned towards the building he had gone around. It looked important. He turned back to Kent, Sain, and Wil.

"Find Lyn, get the information, and find the bandit leader."

"What do we do when we find him?"

"Easy," said Mark, walking towards the building, "Shoot him full of arrows and trample him. Then take his axe. It's a cool-looking axe."

* * *

Mark opened the door. A muscular man was sitting at a counter, polishing a sword. He quickly threw down the weapon and ran over to Mark, his hands grasped in an expression of servitude. It was obvious that he had not had a lot of customers lately.

"Welcome to the armory. If we don't have it, we'll get it. What can I do for you?"

"I need a lance," said Mark, remembering Florina's broken weapon.

"We only have iron lances, sir," said the merchant, wringing his hands, "Will that be okay?"

"Perfectly fine," said Mark. "How much?"

"360 gold."

It seemed a little steep, but Mark felt sorry for the man. He paid up and walked from the store with the lance tucked under his arm.

The group was already coming back. Sain was waving the bandit's axe. Mark waved the lance in reply.

"So," said Mark to Lyn, "you've had some revenge?"

"Revenge?"

"Well," said Mark, "I assumed that the bandits were Taliver Bandits."

Lyn sighed and shrugged.

"Apparently they were from the Ganelon group. But a bandit is a bandit, and I am glad to be ridding the world of this filth."

"What did you want with the axe?" asked Sain, handing the weapon over.

"Seeing as there might be no chance of me getting back to my home, I thought I could settle down somewhere in this world. That axe would look good hanging over a fireplace."

"Really?"

" Of course not, you twit! I just thought we could use another weapon."

"Shall we stay here, milady?" asked Kent.

"Fine," said Lyn, "Set up camp."

Kent went to find wood, Wil went to hunt, and Sain tried to flirt with Florina. Mark drove him off, then turned to Florina.

"Miss Florina, would you please walk with me?"

Florina looked fearful. Mark sighed.

"Look, girl. Lyn trusts me. You should too."

Florina and Mark walked away from the camp. Mark was still carrying the lance.

"Right. I would like to apologize for my behavior. I should have been nicer to you."

"I-I-I-It's all right," said Florina, "What y-you said w-was true. I need to b-become braver."

"I don't know why you're afraid of men. I'm sure you have a good reason for it, but at this point you should be over it. You're a knight. You'll be meeting a lot of men in your career."

Mark leaned in closer to Florina, who leaned back.

"It… was your father, wasn't it? He made you like this."

Florina was silent for a moment. She tightened her jaw, slackened it, then slowly nodded.

"Figures. Well, I haven't had the best life either. We're kindred spirits, so there's no reason to be afraid of me." Mark smiled and held out the lance.

"Here," he said, "Take this. Consider it compensation for my behavior."

"T-thank you," said Florina. She reached out and curled her hands around the shaft of the weapon.

"If you ever need anything, just ask. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

Mark turned and walked away, searching for his hammock. He felt very proud of himself. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

* * *

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand that's all folks!

I like writing for Wil. I based his character off of his support conversations with Rath and Raven, and I can only hope that I didn't make him _too_ hyperactive. I don't think I did. But then again, maybe I did.

Anyway, read and review, please. I live for reviews. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and curb away my homicidal tendencies.

Oh, and the doctor was not Mark's father, even though he did call him "son."


	5. Chapter 5

Righto.

Chapter 5: Air Raids From Oz

* * *

_Weather: Damp and Windy. Rain might be coming._Location: No clue.

_I guess I've got to start writing in this composition book. I've got nothing else to do except wait in this old fortress._

_Why am I even writing in this, Koheleth? If I die, will you give it to my replacement? Will he learn from my mistakes?_

_I think you will give it to him, you sick bastard. Fine then. If this is going to be a manual on how to be a good tactician, I'll treat it like one._

_-Avoid axes at all cost, even if you are wearing high-end armor._

_-Avoid emotional outbursts. _

_-Don't twist your ankle, or you'll have to use your weapon as a crutch._

_-Just because it looks good and tastes good doesn't mean it's edible._

Mark groaned and rubbed his stomach in pain. From now on, Sain would do the cooking; Mark would never let Wil cook again.

They were holed up in an old fortress. Mark had found the only dry place in the building (the dungeon) and had suspended the hammock (he had taken it along with him) between two manacles. He couldn't sleep, not with the horrid rabbit that Wil had repaired. However, he seemed to be the only person affected by the food; everyone else had ate it and been fine. Perhaps it was just his bad luck.

There was no light in the dungeon, but Mark had his flashlight, which could also be turned into a lantern if one slid down the handle. He had used its light to write, and now he would use it for another purpose.

He reached for a block of wood he had spotted earlier and pulled the whittling knife he had gotten from Bulgar out of the duffel bag. He had no clue on how to whittle, but he'd try nonetheless. He was intelligent, so he could figure it out.

Mark sighed as he scraped away at the wooden block. He wondered what was happening back home.

He supposed that he would be listed as MIA, missing in action. Maybe they thought he had been captured. Whatever the case, Mark would be quickly forgotten.

However, he felt sorry for Dr. Kedves, who was as much a loner as Mark. Mark, though he never admitted it, had always looked forward to the therapy phone calls, and he was pretty sure that Dr. Kedves had looked forward to them as well.

Dr. Kedves was a one-of-a-kind. He was a beacon of light shining in the darkness of Mark's life, chasing away the shadows that plagued him. He had been a surrogate father. Mark was sure that he would never meet someone quite like Dr. Kedves.

"_Ouch_!"

Mark sat up and thrust his bleeding thumb into his mouth. He had nicked it with the knife.

Mark wiped the knife on his vest and threw it into the bag, then looked the wood. He had whittled it into a stake, like the kind used for killing vampires. Mark chuckled. No vampires here, save for Lundgren, who was sapping away at Caelin's power.

* * *

"Sain! Stop flirting with Florina!"

Kent grabbed Sain by the ear and dragged him away.

"Come on! It's your turn for guard duty!"

"B-but—"

"I am your superior and you will obey me!"

Lyn giggled happily. Wil paced back and forth nervously.

"You don't think I killed Mark, do you?" he asked with an apprehensive expression.

Lyn shook her head. "Of course not. Wait… do you hear something?"

There was silence. Then, all of the sudden, there was a loud thumping noise, followed by a grunt in pain.

Lyn leapt to her feet and lit a torch, throwing the area into sharp relief. A woman lay on the ground, her face contorted in pain. Next to her was a small piece of paper, on which a man's face was sketched.

* * *

"Why does _everything_ happen when I'm away?"

Mark stretched his legs out in front of him as he sat against a wall. He was still feeling weak, and Lyn was crouched next to him.

"We are outnumbered," said Lyn, "and we have a wounded woman to look after. Well? It is your call."

Mark looked up, and Lyn gasped. His forehead was dotted with sweat, and he looked paler than usual.

"Sain and Kent will guard the main entrance. Wil should go to the west wall and shoot at the bandits through the windows. You, Lyn, should go to the east and guard that entrance. Tell everyone to stay on the defensive; we must survive this day."

"What about you?" asked Lyn, "You are sick!"

"Florina will stay behind to guard me and… Natalie. That's her name, right?"

Lyn nodded.

"Go, Lyn! I'll get better!"

Mark curled into a fetal position and laid his head on the stones. Lyn gave him one last despairing look, then ran off to the east.

* * *

He didn't know what was wrong with him. Maybe it was some disease that didn't exist on Earth, a disease his body couldn't fight. It would explain why he was the only one who got sick.

He knew it was the food. But, there was nothing he could do about it.

Wait... yes there was.

Mark grabbed the wall and hoisted himself up. He laid one hand against it, steadying himself, and forced himself to retch.

* * *

Lyn faced the darkness. She could hear the sounds of battle behind her, but she could not go to help Sain and Kent. She couldn't leave this side of the castle undefended.

Lyn had always been slightly afraid of the dark. She lived on the plains, were everything was lit by stars, and you could see for miles around. Here, however, the darkness was absolute. She could not see through the gloom, and she felt claustrophobic.

Anything could be waiting in the dark. Anything. A bandit could be sneaking on to her. Wolves could be prowling. Perhaps one of the monsters of old could be hiding in the inky blackness. Lyn shivered and gripped the Mani Katti.

She yelled when a hand gripped her shoulder. She whirled around, only to find Mark.

"I… feel… better…" mumbled Mark, shaking slightly.

"You scared me!" said Lyn, her face an ashen white. Mark coughed several times and stood up straighter. He was holding the steel axe he had gotten from the bandit leader in the ruined town.

"Be careful… when you walk in the center of the castle. You might step into a rather large… puddle of vomit."

Lyn calmed down. "Perhaps you should send me over to help Kent and Sain. There's nothing—"

"LOOK OUT!"

Mark grabbed Lyn and threw her to the side as a handaxe hurtled in, right at Mark's chest. It bounced off of Mark's armor, but was thrown with such force that he was knocked over. Lyn was back up in an instant, while Mark remained on the ground, moaning.

A muscular, weaponless bandit charged in from the gloom, his fists raised. He had red hair, a small beard and a furious do-or-die expression on his face. Lyn recognized him.

"Dorcas!"

The man tried to stop, but skidded and tripped over Mark's prostrate body.

"_Ow_!"

Dorcas got to his feet. "How do you know my name?"

"Your wife, Natalie, is in this castle! We are defending her from these rogues!"

"Natalie… she's with you?" Dorcas looked shocked.

Mark shakily got to his feet, groaning. How many more bad things were going to happen on this journey? Just when his stomach was getting better, too…

"Think, Dorcas! Would your wife approve of your actions?" asked Lyn, furiously.

"I… I needed the money…"

"Hey!"

Dorcas and Lyn turned to Mark, who was leaning against the wall, clutching his chest. He looked terrible, and Lyn ran over, concerned. Mark waved her away.

"Listen, Dorcas… Lyn here… is the granddaughter…" he grunted with the effort, "of… Marquess Caelin. Join us… and I'll see to it… that you… get… all the money you… you want!"

Dorcas nodded briskly. "Agreed."

He stooped to pick up his handaxe. Mark pointed to the steel axe which lay on the ground. He cleared his throat.

"Take that and go to the west. You'll find two knights. Tell them that Mark (that's me) wants them to charge. Back them up as they go forth. We also have a timid pegasus knight and a hyperactive brown-haired archer under our command. Don't hurt them."

Dorcas grabbed the axe and wandered off. Lyn watched him go then turned back to Mark, who had slid back down the wall and was sitting.

"Mark, you saved my life."

"You saved mine a while back. We're even now." Mark grinned.

"But still, you have suffered a—"

"I've been suffering all my life, so I'm fine."

"Care to tell me about it?" Lyn sat on her knees next to Mark.

"I'm sorry, but no, Lyn."

The only person Mark had ever told his life's story to was Dr. Kedves, and he was a trained therapist, a friend of his uncle's, an honest man. He knew that Dr. Kedves wouldn't tell Mrs. Kedves, his uncle, or anyone else about what he said. Dr. Kedves had been his best friend, a surrogate father.

He and Lyn had been through a lot, but he had only known her for few days. Maybe she would earn his trust later, but not now.

Lyn looked sad, and opened her mouth to say something, but Sain and Kent came back, riding their horses right into the castle.

"The enemy is on the retreat, Sir Mark," said Kent.

_Sir Mark?_

Mark smiled a pained smile. He could get used to that. He rubbed his forehead and stood.

He was feeling _much_ better. Perhaps that illness had been just a passing thing.

Dorcas came in, supporting Wil. Wil had two arrows sticking out of his left shoulder.

Mark gave a start. Finally, a use for his skills!

Florina came forward, looking scared. Mark pointed at her.

"Florina, please go to the dungeon. You'll find my bag. Bring it here."

Florina left and brought the bag, struggling a little underneath its weight. Mark motioned to Dorcas.

"I'll need your help."

* * *

"So, are you ready?"

Dorcas nodded and gripped the arrow.

"Bite on this, Wil. It'll help you ignore the pain," Mark forced a small, rolled up wad of toweling between Wil's jaws.

"It's not exactly the most dangerous operation, but I don't want to infect the wound," said Mark to Lyn, "Sorry about all the huboo."

"Quite all right," said Lyn, "Just get him better."

Mark began sawing through the first arrow shaft with a small, diamond-edged bone saw. Dorcas held the shaft steady, and Lyn walked off with Kent.

"How far are we from Araphen?" asked Lyn.

"A couple more days travel should do it," answered Kent.

"I am worried," said Lyn. She looked up at the starless night. "What if Mark is right? What if Lundgren has tried something, and has taken over Caelin?"

"Don't worry," said Kent, "We'll be in good shape once we get Marquess Araphen's support."

"I hope that you are right," said Lyn, looking back down, "But I cannot help feeling that something has gone wrong."

"Success!"

Lyn and Kent turned to see Mark holding up two arrow shafts. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Lyn.

"Turn around. You'll not want to see this part." He pulled a pair of forceps and a scalpel from his bag. Kent and Lyn hurriedly walked off to find Natalie, followed by Dorcas. They found her in the inner fortress, sitting on a pile of rubble.

"So, Natalie, has Dorcas told of Mark's plan?"

Muffled shrieks sounded from afar. Florina ran in, her face pale.

"Anyway," said Lyn, raising her voice as the yells increased in volume, "What do you think?"

Natalie raised her voice as well. "_I_ agree with Sir Mark. Dorcas should travel with you. It's an honest way of earning money."

The screams subsided, and the group hurried back. Dorcas stayed with his wife.

Mark was stacking his bloodstained instruments on a cloth. Wil was looking woozy as Sain poured a vulnerary on his shoulder.

"He'll be all right," said Mark, "Though I have to say, Wil's _much_ braver than he looks."

"It was terrible!" cried Sain.

"Oh come on," protested Mark, pouring bottled water onto the medical instruments, "You_ stab_ people for a living. What's so bad about surgery?"

"I feel… _happy_!"

Wil collapsed. Mark chuckled.

"Let him sleep. Surgery without anesthesia's always bad."

* * *

They remained in the fortress for one more day, allowing Mark and Wil to recover as Kent took Natalie back to her village. Mark continued work on his whittling project, sitting on the fortress wall. It now looked like a splintery explosion.

They were becoming quite the group. Mark had watched Sain and Lyn spar, and could see that both had improved significantly. Mark had proved his skill as a medic, and now everyone else was looking at him with what appeared to be awe. He allowed himself to bask in the glory of his achievements, whittling the hours away.

Lyn came up beside him. Mark sighed.

"Are we leaving already?"

"In an hour," said Lyn, "What are you working on?"

"I'm working on a thing," said Mark.

"A… thing?"

"Yep. It's an air raid from Oz. Those horrid flying monkeys. Well, I guess I _should_ get ready. Help me up."

He offered a hand. Lyn grasped it and pulled him to his feet. Mark brushed dusk off his cloak and grinned.

"Off we go, into the wild blue yonder."

* * *

Folks, that's all for now. As always, read and review, so that I may improve. Have a very Merry Christmas.


	6. Beyond the Borders

Thanks for all the reviews, people!

If any of you have been reading carefully and have been wondering what Mark's secret possession was, you'll find out.

Chapter 6: Sonic Superweapon Serra

* * *

"Sain, _please _be careful. I mean, it'd be kinda funny if you fell, but it's hard to treat a broken neck! Sain? _Are you listening to me_? _Sain_!"

Sain shimmied down the tree like a cat, holding a bird's nest in his right hand. He alighted gracefully on the ground and showed the nest to mark. Six speckled eggs were inside.

"See, sir? No problem," said Sain, "Now we have fresh eggs for breakfast!"

"Fresh?" Mark snorted, "They probably have fetal birds in them."

"Fetal? What does fetal—?"

"Forget it," said Mark. The two men began to walk back to the camp. "I'm not going to eat it, anyway."

"Oh, come on!" cried Sain, "You can't just eat candy, sir!"

Mark shrugged. "With all this marching we're doing, I won't put on any weight."

"I know you're worried about getting sick, but you need to eat some proper food! And what are you going to do when you run out of chocolate?"

Mark didn't answer, but that question had been plaguing him for a while. What was he going to do when he ran out of candy bars? Truth be told, he was waiting for Koheleth the magic-man to come and tell him what went wrong.

But right now, Mark had to cope with an empty-stomach sugar buzz, and he could feel the beginnings of a hunger-headache. Oh well. There were lots of dense patches of wood around. Mark would wander into one, and Koheleth, like some neurotic, sociopathic genie, would appear and make everything better.

According to Kent, they were now one day away from Araphen. The entire group had relaxed, but Mark was paranoid. The journey for the past few days had been too peaceful, and with his kind of luck, he could expect a bandit attack at any moment.

They stopped in front of a particularly thick patch of woods and set up camp. It was a picturesque setting: woods, little houses, mountains, and a small lake.

Mark watched hungrily as Sain scrambled the eggs in a skillet and doled them out onto plates. Oh… what the heck. He grabbed a plate and offered it to Sain, who grinned, winked, and served him a ladle-full of eggs. Mark walked to the lake, carrying his plate. Lyn watched him go, then got up to follow him.

* * *

It really was a beautiful lake. The lakes in the U.S. were filled with trash, and the Marines liked to shoot RPGs at fish in Iraq. _This_ lake was perfectly clean and explosion-free, light sparkling off of the water. Mark sat down, his plate on his lap, and took off his cloak, utility belt, vest, and boonie hat and placed them carefully on the ground to the right. He had no utensils, so he just shoveled food into his mouth with his hands.

Lyn joined him and sat on the other side of Mark's equipment.

"I've never been this far from Sacae before," she said, staring at the lake.

Mark shrugged. "Traveling is always fun. Unless, of course, you're dead."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember that conflict I told you about?" said Mark, "The one that's going on in my world? Well, if you die, you get flown back home in a coffin. Some of my comrades have gone home that way."

"I'm sorry," said Lyn, "Do all of the soldiers use weapons like your… shotgun?"

"They use weapons that are ten times as powerful as my shotgun. This weapon is just the tip of the iceberg."

Lyn shuddered in sympathy. "That sounds… horrible."

Mark shrugged.

"It's a sad and beautiful world. Its people's capacity for good is outmatched by their capacity for bad."

Lyn sighed and laid a hand on Mark's elbow. "I'm truly sorry that you feel that way."

"I'm sorry too."

"Listen, Mark," said Lyn, "I have told you everything about me, but I know practically nothing about you. Why are you so sad? Tell me _something_!"

Mark looked to the ground.

"At _least_ tell me what _that_ is!"

Lyn pointed to a piece of black material poking out of one of the pockets of Mark's utility belt. Mark stared at it, sighed and grabbed the belt. He opened the pocket and pulled out a bundle of black silk.

"It's my most prized possession."

He unwrapped it. Lyn smiled grimly.

"Is it a knife?"

Mark fully unwrapped the parcel, revealing a small, black box.

"Why yes, Lyn, it is."

Mark opened the box to reveal the strangest knife Lyn had ever seen. It had two handles and no blade that Lyn could see. The handles were jet black, with strange, white beasts on the sides. Mark took it out of the box, and twirled it around, snapping it open and shut as it danced around his fingers. Lyn shied away as Mark ceased flipping the blade and held it open, exposing a steel, 2-inch long blade.

"It's called a butterfly knife," said Mark, "It represents both the good and bad of my life. The creatures on the sides are called oriental dragons, if you wanted to know."

Mark hesitated for a moment.

"… It was given to me… when I was in a gang."

Lyn gasped.

"A gang! You mean, like bandits?"

Mark shook his head. "No. Actually, it was less of a gang and more of an organized-crime syndicate. A really big one. It wasn't… _isn't_ a common group of bandits; it is an elegant and well-oiled machine, stretching across several continents."

"_That_ big?" asked Lyn, astonished.

"The organization I was in is known as the Russian Mafia."

There was a scream. Mark had winced when Florina had screamed in the ruined village, but she had nothing on this. That voice! It would shatter windshields made of reinforced glass!

Lyn was already up and running towards the source of the noise. Mark had to put on all of his equipment before following.

Mark followed Lyn and found her talking to two people, a purple-headed teenager and a girl with pink hair. The guy wore a red cape, while the girl wore what looked like clerical robes.

Wow. Pink. Mark wondered what the girl's parents' hair colors were. Red and white, crossed to make pink? His biology teacher would have had a field day.

Behind them, a burnt bandit was slowly struggling to rise. The purple-headed teen whirled around and raised a hand. A fireball flew from his hand and struck the bandit in the face with a shower of sparks and the smell of burnt flesh. The bandit collapsed.

Great. Where there was one bandit, there was bound to be at least six more.

"You got us into this mess!" screeched the girl, angrily pointing a finger at Lyn, "Now help us!"

Mark puffed up like an angry owl. An owl wearing body armor, a boonie, a shotgun, several knives, and combat boots.

_Lyn_ had gotten them into this mess? How dare they?

Mark opened a pocket in his belt, pulling out two military-grade earplugs. He pushed them into his ears and took off his boonie hat, then approached the girl with a wide-eyed, insane-looking expression, showing off his gray corneas. His expression, combined with his skin and hair, worked to great effect; the girl took one look at him and screamed.

"ERKY! IT'S A DEMON! KILL IT!"

Lyn laughed and winked at Mark. "That's Mark, my tactician."

"_Your voice offends me, cleric_," said Mark, adopting a guttural tone of voice. Behind the girl, Lyn bit on her fist to stop from laughing. "_Cease to speak, and your death shall be painless_."

"My voice? _WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY VOICE_?"

"_I warned you, cleric. Now your bones will litter the plains, bleaching in the sun. Your flesh shall be but carrion for the crows. I shall chain you to a jagged rock and… stab you. Repeatedly. In the stomach. Then I shall take your entrails and strangle­_—"

"That is enough, Mark," said Lyn as the girl gave a shriek of horror, "This is Serra and Erk. Serra is a cleric and Erk is a traveling mage."

"Pleased to meet you," said Mark, dropping the act. He slapped his boonie hat back on, but kept the earplugs in. "I see that you've run into some bandit trouble."

"Yes," said Erk, rubbing his eyes in a long-suffering sort of way, "Serra screamed and attracted them."

"I did not!"

"Well, it would seem that you are caught up in this conflict with the rest of us," said Mark, "It would be in your best interest to join us. As Lyn said beforehand, I serve as the tactician for this group."

Erk nodded. "We shall follow your orders. Shall we not, Serra?"

Serra peeked out from behind Erk.

"So you're not a demon?"

Erk sighed. "Just tell us what to do."

Mark smiled, and opened his eyes wide into his demonic stare.

"_Burn them. Burn them all. Watch as they scream in pain as the flames of oblivion caress their skin and burn their hair. Laugh as they run around. Yell "stop drop and roll" while they try to put the fires out. Then take a knife and—_"

"Mark," said Sain, who had ridden up on his horse," you are one sick puppy."

"_I try_."

* * *

The main force rounded the forest from the north, killing bandits as they went. Mark, Erk, and Serra crept past the lake. Everyone had agreed to meet up at the armory in the distance. Mark and Erk were trying for stealth, but Serra kept up a constant stream of chatter.

"The guys in your group are HOT! Even that old guy looks okay. Oh, and you're not bad either, Erk."

"Ha," said Mark, "I guess that makes me the ugly duckling."

"You know, you could actually be very handsome if you made a few changes."

"_Really_?" Mark was genuinely interested. He had never looked good in his _life_.

"Sure!" said Serra cheerily, "Remember all that I say, now."

"Go ahead," said Mark.

"First of all, you walk with a bad slouch. Walk straighter!" said Serra, gesturing wildly with her hands.

Mark stood straighter. He couldn't believe he was actually going along with this.

"Furthermore, you always look so gloomy! You'd think that you had just come from a funeral! Look a little happier!"

Mark sighed. "I can't help my mood, Serra."

"Well…" said Serra, scratching her nose, "Just try and _look_ a bit happier. What else… oh yeah! Get rid of that ugly hat!"

"My boonie?" Mark was shocked. His camouflage boonie was amazing, and she knew it.

"It looks like it's been shriveled up by the sun! It's terrible!"

Fine, maybe she didn't think it was amazing.

"It's supposed to look like that."

"It's _supposed _look like it's made of rotten orange peels?"

Mark sighed and took off his boonie, stuffing it into a belt pocket.

"And finally, your hair! It's… it has no shine! It just lies there like a raggedy mop!"

Mark ran a hand through his hair. His hair probably was a bit dry and unhealthy.

"You need to get your hair cut, and you need to treat it better! That is all."

Serra placed her hands on her hips and stared at Mark. Mark was surprised.

"I… that's actually sound advice…"

"You know it!" said Serra, striking a pose. Mark made a noise that sounded like a asphyxiated mouse.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir Mark," said Erk, who been wearing a strained expression throughout the conversation, "but we have a problem."

Three bandits were converging on their position: a swordsman, a regular run-of-the-mill bandit, and an archer.

"ERKY! SAVE ME!"

The bandits winced, but still closed in. Erk stood at the ready, and Mark got an idea as the archer bounced an arrow off his vest.

"Wait," he said to Erk, "Serra, could you do something for me, please?"

"Sure, just KEEP THOSE BANDITS AWAY FROM MEEEEEEEEE!"

"Okay then. I would like you to scream as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can."

Erk blanched. Mark checked to make sure his earplugs were in place as another arrow bounced of his chest, much to the dismay of the bandit archer. Serra looked confused, but opened her mouth and drew in air.

* * *

"Kent, you don't think they—_arugh_!"

Sain's startled horse reared and deposited him on the ground as a shrill scream cut through the crisp mountain air.

* * *

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…"

The bandits fell to their knees. Erk almost fell as well, but screwed up his face and, through a monumental exercise of will, stopped himself from covering his ears and forced himself to begin casting a spell. Mark winced. His earplugs were designed to withstand the sounds from jet engines, but the scream still made his ears hurt.

Erk stood and made several hand motions. A fireball appeared, dancing around his closed fist, much larger than the flames Erk had used against the first bandit. Mark flicked the safety on his shotgun.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—gasp…gasp—EEEEEEEEEEEE…"

Erk whirled and threw his hands down. The fireball leapt into the air and hit the archer, who disappeared in a mass of flames. Mark snapped Apologetic Irony up to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger twice, once at the swordsman and once and the axeman. The swordsman was hit in the face, and the axeman was hit in the side. Both went down, clawing at their wounds. Serra stopped screaming as Erk fired off two more fireballs, finishing the job. Serra struck another pose as the males rubbed their ears.

"I _RULE_!"

"Yes, Serra, yes you do… ow…"

* * *

The lead bandit, Bug, was a little scared. His men had disappeared, and he was all alone.

This situation had gone from bad to worse. This group had been slowly marching across the land, killing his brothers without suffering a single casualty. It was if they weren't even human. The bandit shivered. He didn't even know when _he_ would be at—

"AAH!"

Bug fell to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. He dropped his axe and struggled to pull the arrow out, but stopped when a group of shadows passed over him.

He looked up.

He was surrounded by the very group he had been hunting. They all _looked _human. Except for… oh dear Elimine.

One of the group wore strange clothes and an even stranger expression. The guy looked _evil_, inhuman.

The creature stepped forward, kicking Bug's axe out of reach. He leaned down and grabbed Bug's shirt, pulling him up slightly. When he spoke, it was in a guttural tone that chilled Bug to the very bone.

"_Persistent, aren't you, bandit?"_

"I—"

"_Day after day I travel, hoping for calm, yet you, bandit, plague me. What is your name?"_

The creature grinned and began to drool.

"My names B-Bug," said Bug, visibly shaking.

"_Bug. How fitting, for you are nothing but a cockroach to me_," the demon leaned in closer, "_Ugly, and easily squashed_."

"B-b-b-but…"

"_LEAVE, INSECT! DELIVER A MESSAGE TO YOUR MASTERS: I AM MARKETH, THE SCOURGE OF A THOUSAND NATIONS! CROSS ME, AND YOU SHALL BE LOOKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER FOR THE REST OF YOUR SHORT LIFE._"

The thing pushed Bug away.

"_Leave_."

"Sir Mark, was that necessary?" asked Kent, watching the bandit's running form.

"No, but I needed a stress reliever. That felt better than an opiate."

* * *

"Sain… _why_ in the seven continents and all their idiots did you convince them to join up with us?"

Sain shrugged, sheepish.

"She's cute! I couldn't resist!"

Mark sighed. "Young people and their hormones…"

"Hey!" said Sain, indignant, "I don't know what a hormone is, but I do know that you're not that old either!"

"I'm twenty-three, yes, but I am much older than you in terms of the mind," said Mark, tapping his forehead expressively.

They had left the battlegrounds behind and were now on an actual road leading to Araphen. Things were looking good, and Mark allowed himself to relax as Lyn sidled up to him and shooed Sain away.

"Mark, you were telling me about some 'Russian Mafia'," she said, expectant. Mark's expression turned hard.

"I was a part of a crime syndicate called the Russian Mafia," he said, "And that's all that you need to know."

"_All I need to know_?" Lyn looked mad, "Tell me more!"

"No."

Mark walked faster. Lyn kept up.

"You have kept something bottled up inside you. Feelings should not be bottled up! Let me help!" Lyn gently grabbed Mark's shoulder, but he shook her hand off.

"I don't need help."

He walked even faster. Lyn walked faster as well, keeping pace.

"Yes, you do! I have watched you! You are always looking for a place to be alone when we stop! Always brooding!"

Mark sped up, and Lyn actually had to jog in order to keep up.

"You know there is something wrong! Whenever we are marching, you always have that vacant stare! You always look so sad! Let me—"

"Would you _SHUT UP_?"

Mark stopped dead and whirled around, livid. Lyn looked shocked.

"_YES, I'M KEEPING SOMETHING BOTTLED UP! YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT IS? DO YOU? IT'S TWENTY YEARS OF SUFFERING, SADNESS, AND AGONY! TWENTY YEARS!_"

Lyn's eyes were becoming watery. "I just—"

"_YOU THINK I'M JUST GOING TO TELL YOU ALL OF MY SECRETS? BECAUSE YOU SAVED MY LIFE? MY COMRADES HAVE SAVED MY LIFE A HUNDRED DAMNED TIMES, AND I NEVER TOLD THEM MY PROBLEMS!_"

Tears were streaming down Lyn's face now. "But—"

"_YOU PRESUME TOO MUCH, LYN! I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU'RE MAKING IT A FREAKING PROJECT, BUT STOP TRYING TO HELP ME! LET! IT! GO!_"

Lyn was sobbing as Kent dismounted and stomped up to Mark. He grabbed the front of his vest and pulled him close.

"You do _not_ talk to milady like that!"

_Wham!_

Kent reeled back, holding his jaw. Mark had just punched him.

"You—"

Kent drew his sword, trembling with rage, and raised it above his head. He stopped, however, when he found the barrel of Mark's shotgun pointed between his eyes. He paled. Lyn had told him of the weapon, and he had heard it in action, but he held fast, ready to tear the man apart.

"Try it, Knight of Caelin," Mark hissed, licking his lips. "Try it, and see what happens."

"Both of you! Stop it!" cried Lyn as the rest of the group looked on in horror.

"Now now, none of that."

Kent dropped his weapon and was forced, by some unseen power, to snap to attention.

"What—?"

A man walked in from nowhere. He was wearing a tunic, and had blue eyes.

"Hello, Koheleth," said Mark.

"And here I was, thinking that you were beginning to break free of you emotional problems. I was hoping that the girl would soften you up, but I guess I was wrong. She unleashed your darker side."

"Who's he?" asked Sain.

"He's the magic-man Lyn told you about," said Mark, calming down.

"I brought you here, Mark, to keep this group together, not tear it apart. Try to act better."

Mark spat.

"_Act better_? Ha! You expect me—"

"Yes, I _do_ expect you to act better. You're a soldier for the U.S. military. I thought that you knew something of discipline."

Koheleth turned to Lyn.

"But, I suppose that every man has his breaking point. Try to understand, girl, that I have ripped this man from his home and dropped him into a brand new world. He had already undergone severe emotional trauma, and was coping _extremely_ well with the situation. It was only a matter of time before he blew, I'm afraid."

"He's a raving madman," said Kent, through gritted teeth, "Let me go, so that I may put him down."

Koheleth waved a finger threateningly. "I'm sorry, but I'll not have you threatening my chosen. I knew that something like this would happen, and I waited for this day, ready to resolve any conflict."

He cleared his throat and addressed the entire group.

"I do not make mistakes. Mark is destined to help this world, whether you like it or not. He is not insane, just frightened."

"Frightened? I'm not—"

"Oh, but you are, Mark. Frightened of opening yourself up to another person. Frightened of what the future will bring."

He turned to Lyn

"On this unfortunate matter, I have a solution. Let it go, as Mark said. Do not bother him again, for he will tell you his problems when he feels the time is right."

"Don't count on it," said Mark.

"As for you, Mark, I am still very disappointed. That girl is not motivated out of simple

curiosity. She is very concerned, so you should be polite, at the very least. She has done much for you."

Mark looked slightly unrepentant, but Lyn had stopped crying.

"Now, Kent and Mark. I would like you to shake hands."

Koheleth snapped his fingers, and Kent was able to move. He gave Mark a glare that would have curdled milk, while Mark returned the glare with one that would have made the devil turn tail and run.

Hesitantly, they both put forth their hands and shook. They let go quickly, and Kent wiped his hands on his pants, as though he had been contaminated.

"Now, apologize to Lyn."

"Fine. Sorry, Lyn."

Koheleth sighed.

"I guess that's all I can make you do. I say again, _put this incident behind you_."

Koheleth snapped his fingers again. Two rings appeared around him, and he disappeared in a flash of blue. He was gone.

A lot of tension had gone out of the air. Mark and Kent stared at each other, and everything was quiet.

The silence was broken when Mark snorted, turned, and walked towards Araphen. The group hesitated for a long moment, then followed.

* * *

Good Lord. I can smell the adrenaline emanating from my screen. Yeesh.

Read and review people. Read and review, please. Tell me what you like and don't like.


	7. Blood of Pride

* * *

Oh. Mi. GAWD! Reviews!

Any-who, I am aware of the deus ex machina (you remember in the first chapter, when Mark actually yells the word out). I would not like to use it, but I believe that sometimes use of the "God from the Machine" is the only way to resolve a conflict. Besides, if J.K. Rowling and Christopher Paolini can use it, so can I, right?

Right?

Meh?

Oh and yes, the story will be going on throughout the entire game. That includes Eliwood/Hector/Nergal.

Lastly, yes, there are a lot of twists. However, here's a hint to frustrate you some more. The Russian Mafia in the U.S. is stationed mainly in New York, and is usually involved in murder-for-hire, extortion, and infiltration of businesses. That should give you some idea of why Mark's past is bothering him.

Chapter 7: Rejoice in Abject Sorrow

* * *

Araphen was within viewing range, but the group remained gloomy. Mark was avoiding Lyn, Lyn was avoiding Mark, and Kent, angry at Lyn for allowing Mark to continue traveling with the group, was avoiding both Mark _and_ Lyn.

And so, Sain was unhappy. When he had first joined up with this group, he had steeled himself for a great, enjoyable adventure. He had always loved traveling (it increased his chances of finding girls) and enjoyed the occasional battle, but the near-deadly confrontation between Kent and Mark had killed the mood. Sain was a social animal; the happier his friends were, the happier he was. And right now, no one was happy.

He was Kent's friend, and should be have been siding with him. However, Mark's deadpan humor always brightened Sain's mood, and he had begun to grow on him as the journey had progressed. So now he walked with Mark, trying to ease the conflict, and so far he was having little success.

"It's odd, Sain. You should be siding with Kent, giving me evil eyes and keeping your sword sharp, waiting for the day I slip up."

Sain shrugged. "Well, nothing happened, right? And besides, I thought that we had become friends during this journey."

"Yes, Sain, I believe we have," said Mark.

"I have things I don't like to talk about, and you have things you don't like to talk about. You're just like any other normal human being."

"Normal," Mark snorted and turned his head to Sain, giving him the full benefit of his gray stare. "You think I'm normal?"

"Well, look at me," said Sain, "I have a compulsion to flirt with girls! That's not exactly normal."

Mark looked grim. "A lot more ordinary than flying into rages and pulling a gun on someone. You've never caused any harm."

_Never caused any harm? The nerve!_

Sain made a grandiose pose. "I'll have you know, Sir Mark, that many girls have fought over me, creating _grievous_ bodily harm."

"You enjoyed watching those fights, didn't you?" asked Mark.

Sain shrugged and grinned widely. "I am what I am."

"And so am I," said Mark, removing his heavy cloak. "So don't try and fix me."

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything!" protested Sain. "I just want this group to go back to the way it was!" However, Mark was not listening.

"Try duct tape. It fixes _everything_. And take this cloak, will you? It's heavy."

"Duct tape?" asked Sain, grabbing the cloak and folding it.

"Yeah. Tape Lyn's mouth shut," Mark rubbed his shoulders, then looked up a Sain's bewildered expression. "Oh, you don't even know what duct tape is. Forget it."

Mark was silent for a moment, then he looked up at Araphen and stopped walking.

"_Please_ tell me there's some sort of large barbecue festival going on."

Smoke was rising from Araphen. A _lot_ of smoke.

Fire! The castle was on fire!

The raced to Araphen, Erk and Serra falling behind as they ran. The knights, having mounts, reached the city first.

The inferno was so large that its sight hurt one's eyes, and vicious heat emanated from the conflagration in waves. Marquess Araphen's army was swarming about the castle like ants, pouring buckets of water onto the flame. The city's residents were scrambling around, pouring water on the roofs of their houses as the wind carried in sparks from the castle. It, like the market in Bulgar, was a scene of general pandemonium.

Sain turned to Mark, but he was nowhere to be seen. He rode over to Lyn, who was looking horrified.

"Mark's missing!"

Kent looked unconcerned, but Lyn looked even more scared.

"We have to find him!"

* * *

They had searched for many minutes, wading through seas of people, getting jostled and knocked over, but they could not find Mark. The flames of the castle had only grown bigger, and the Araphen's army was exhausted.

"Where could he be?" asked Lyn, scanning the crowd. No use, everyone was screaming (rather pointlessly) and running. They wouldn't find Mark. It would be easier to find a ghost in the middle of a snowstorm.

"Oy! You there!"

Lyn turned to see man stumbling through the crowd towards to her. He wore well-worn clothes and a large sword, buckled across his shoulder.

"You're Lady Lyndis, aren't you?"

Lyn gave him a confused look. "Yes, I am."

"Prepare yourself!"

Kent and Sain drew their swords as the assassin drew a dagger and leapt forward. Lyn didn't move a muscle, for it was obvious that it was too late to do anything. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow.

The assassin gave a strangled gasp and fell against Lyn, throwing her to the ground. Kent moved forward and threw the man off of her, revealing an arrow sticking out of his back.

"Wow. Nice shot."

Mark was standing next to a mounted Sacaen nomad, his clothes covered in soot. He gestured to the nomad, introducing him to the group.

"This is Rath, the Captain of the Guard. Say hello, people."

"Where'd you go?" Sain asked, trotting his horse closer.

"Well," said Mark, "I saw that the barracks were on fire, and that soldiers were trapped inside it. I thought, _Well, I'm wearing flame-retardant clothing_, so I tackled a wall and made an opening. That's when I met Rath, who had been fighting the flames. Take a bow, Rath."

Rath remained silent, his eyes on Lyn.

"I struck a deal with him. Araphen's army is taking on the fire, but the group that started the blaze is attacking the town. _We_ are going to help with the fighting."

He clapped his hands once and stared across the city. "First, run around and get everybody indoors. We meet at the city center. Go!"

The group spilt off in several directions, but Mark ran and caught up with Lyn.

"You do know," said Mark, "that these people are out for _your_ blood."

"Hmm," said Lyn. "I take it by your tone that I should not be expecting an apology for you actions yesterday."

"Why should I apologize?" asked Mark, a strange gleam in his eye. "_You_ provoked _me_."

"Fine, be like that," said Lyn, continuing to run. "But we need a plan. I hope you have thought of one."

"Rath has told me of a secret passage leading into the castle. It's operated by a series of switches; we need to hit each one to open the door."

"Where are the switches?" asked Lyn.

"In the main barracks right…_ there_!"

They stopped outside several large stone buildings. Mark tried a door, but it was locked.

"Damn. But wait… who's that?"

A man wearing green clothes, gray breeches, and a red cloak was walking towards them. Mark pulled out his combat knife and waved it threateningly. The man raised his hands in the air, but continued to come forward.

"Nice knife."

"Thank you," said Mark, "Now, who the hell are you?"

The man bowed low, his head nearly touching the ground.

"My name is Matthew. I'm a specialist in all kinds of… acquisitions.

"I have no need for a thief," said Lyn, but Mark looked interested.

"Thief as in lock-picking thief?"

Matthew bowed even lower.

"Yep. I can open the doors of the barracks for you, if you would like… for a price."

"I _would_ like," said Mark. "But we need to wait for our comrades before advancing."

* * *

"Right. Now that we're all here, I'd like to set a few things straight."

Mark spread his arms wide, gesturing to the city square.

"This square is our fallback position. If you're injured or need assistance, this is the place to come. Clear?"

Everybody nodded.

"Now, I'm going to organize you into groups. Florina, I want you to take to the skies and survey the land. I want troop movements, numbers, and the weapons that the enemy are using."

"Y-yes, Sir Mark," said Florina. Her pegasus rose into the air with one mighty flap of its wings.

"Serra, Erk, Wil, and Kent will remain here to guard the fallback position. Lyn, Matthew, and Rath will go to the northern barracks and flip the switch, while Dorcas, Sain, and I will go to the southern barracks and flip the switch located there. Once the main barracks's gates are open, we will meet back in the fallback position to coordinate an assault. Clear?"

Everyone was.

"Whoa! Look alive, people!"

Two swordsmen had charged into the square. They skidded to a halt and tried to flee when they realized how many people they were attacking. Three arrows and a fireball ensured that they didn't get far.

"Go!"

* * *

"So, you had a skeleton key and didn't tell me?"

"One of the villagers gave it to me, sir," said Dorcas, calmly, "I forgot."

"No matter," said Mark. "It just makes our job much easier. Hand it over."

They were moving towards the southern barracks, slowly and carefully. Florina had told them that, while there were few people outside, she expected the full fighting force to be inside the buildings. Mark was going into combat with horrid intelligence, and he didn't like it.

The fire was getting under control, but the air was still smoky and acrid, hurting his eyes. Mark coughed and inspected the rusty key.

"It looks as though it'll fall apart if I turn it in a lock."

Dorcas shrugged. "As long as you get the door open, sir."

"Enemy!" yelled Sain. A lone soldier stood by the barracks. The man took one look at Mark's group and shifted into a defensive stance.

"Get him, Sain!" said Mark. "We'll get the door open!"

Sain leveled his lance and charged, his horse's hooves thundering across the ground. He neared the soldier, who leapt to the side and drove his lance deep into the horse's neck. The beast fell with a screeching cry and a thundering crash, and Sain was thrown from the saddle.

"Dorcas! Move!"

Dorcas sprang into action. He pulled his handaxe from his belt, spun it to gain momentum, then released it with a grunt. The axe flew through the air and hit the soldier's arm, gashing it. The man stumbled backwards as Sain got to his feet, drew his sword, and leapt forward. The soldier's head bounced to the ground, disconnected from its shoulders.

"You good, Sain?" called Mark.

"I'm fine," Sain yelled back, kneeling to check on his injured horse.

"I'm gonna open this door, Dorcas, and I want you to go crazy. Got it?"

Dorcas nodded and readied his axe.

Mark turned the key and opened the door, revealing one scared-looking soldier. Mark gave him his demon stare as Dorcas ran in, roaring a battle cry, his huge axe raised above his head. The soldier held up lance to block, but Dorcas's axe cleaved through the weapon, slammed into the man's shoulder, and kept going through, splattering the ground with gore.

"Dorcas!" yelled Mark. His bulk was blocking the scene. "Are you all right? What's happened?"

Dorcas let go of his axe and stepped back, revealing the soldier. The axe had moved through his shoulder, through his ribs and down into his stomach. He stood on his own for a full three seconds before crumpling.

Mark whistled. "You'll win any arm-wrestling competition you ever—is that platform the switch?"

* * *

"You are from the Lorca tribe, are you not?"

"Yes," said Lyn, "And you are from the Kutolah tribe."

"Yes," said Rath, looking across the landscape. "I did not know there were any survivors from the massacre."

"Only a few," said Lyn.

Matthew was picking the lock to the northern barracks.

"Guys, do you think you could watch my back? I don't know whose coming out of these things."

Lyn readied her sword as Rath drew back his bow, pointing an arrow at the door. Matthew opened it to reveal… nothing. The only thing in the barracks was a raised platform. Rath moved his horse to the square, and it sunk into the ground under its weight.

"The first switch has been triggered."

* * *

Mark gingerly stepped onto the raised square. It sunk into the ground as a series of clicks sounded from the walls.

"I guess that's a trigger. Let's get back to the square. Double-time, march!"

"Carefully now…"

Mark looked on as Dorcas pulled the snapped lance from Sain's horse's neck. The horse offered only the smallest of complaints, and when the lance was out Serra raised her staff. A flash of light, and the wound was healed.

Mark frowned. Sain noticed.

"You're unhappy that my steed's healed?"

"No," said Mark, with a vacant expression on his face. He turned the entire group and cleared his throat.

"Good. The plan _basically_ went off without a hitch. We now attack the main barracks."

He coughed again. The air was still smoky, but the fire was almost gone.

"We can assume that the enemy commander is within. The fallback point is now going to be moved to right outside the barracks. Kent, Rath, Dorcas, Lyn, Matthew, and I are going in. The rest of you will hold down the base."

The group separated into their assigned teams. Mark addressed his infiltration group.

"The barracks are still partially on fire. Watch for debris and avoid smoky areas. Be defensive and stick together."

They advanced to the barracks. With the triggering of the switch, an entire wall of the barracks had slid down. Smoke drifted in from the opening.

"Watch yourselves."

Kent, Rath, Dorcas and Lyn crept in the smoky barracks. Mark and Matthew held back for a moment, then moved in behind the main force.

Matthew elbowed Mark in the ribs.

"Look! Chests!"

Mark looked. A locked chest lay against the wall, next to a bunk bed.

"Property of Araphen soldiers. Keep away."

"Oh come _on_!" cried Matthew, "The soldiers won't be giving us any rewards! And besides, we'll need stuff for the road ahead!"

"You're joining us?" Mark looked wary. "Why do I detect a hidden agenda?"

Matthew grinned, but remained quiet. Mark sighed.

"Suit yourself."

"Hooray! Treasure time! Treasure time!"

The thief practically skipped to the chest and began picking the lock. Mark grimaced.

"Treasure time? Wow.… how old are you?"

Matthew leapt to his feet. "An angelic robe! Amazing!"

"Looks like a costume from a bad Christmas pageant."

"It's very valuable!" said Matthew, "It increases your chances of staying alive!"

"So does my armor, but my armor doesn't look like a dress."

"It's magic, sir!"

"Oh," said Mark, "Magic."

_Everything_ in this world was magic.

The sounds of a scuffle were heard in the distance. Mark and Matthew walked through the smoky haze to find Lyn, Kent , Rath, and Dorcas surrounding the corpses of a soldier and an archer.

"Another chest!" cried Matthew. He ran over to it, picked the lock, and pulled out a large, cumbersome sword.

"It's huge!" cried Mark, thinking of androgynous men with spiky hair and one-winged-angels.

"It's an armorslayer. Built for taking down knights."

Mark smirked at Kent, but Matthew shook his head.

"Not that kind of knight. I'm talking about _that_ kind of knight."

Matthew pointed towards a figure clanking through the smoke. The figure revealed itself to be an enemy soldier, literally swathed in armor.

"Whoa, _shit_!"

Mark pulled Apologetic Irony from his back, flipped the safety, and fired a shell. A pattering quite like the sound of rain sounded across the knight's armor as shotgun pellets fired across the room. The knight was unharmed, but was forced back a step.

Mark grabbed the armorslayer from Matthew and tossed it to Kent, who caught it and drove his spurs into his horse's side. The horse reared then charged forward, and as Kent passed the stumbling knight, he let loose an almighty swipe of his sword. The blade easily tore a gash through the knight's armor, cutting right through the chest.

"Nice," said Mark, walking forward and pulling the dead knight's helmet off.

"Bools!" yelled Kent.

"You know this guy?" asked Mark, trying on the helmet.

"Yes, he's a Caelin Knight!"

Mark turned to Lyn. "Told you your uncle was gonna try something. But if _he's_ the knight, Kent, what does that make you?"

Kent sniffed. "A cavalier."

Rath rode into the smoke and onto a platform. It sunk into the ground, and a wall slid away, revealing a dark passage.

* * *

"Well, this is… nice."

The castle's interior hinted at former opulence, but now everything was charred. As Mark stared through the long halls, he could see the burnt remains of paintings, tapestries, and rugs. Even though they were practically destroyed, Mark could see that they had once been beautiful.

Mark had a sneaking suspicion that Marquess Araphen would no be happy.

Exhausted Araphen soldiers littered about, many nursing burn wounds. They waved to Mark, who waved back.

"You know them?" asked Sain.

"We've met."

A well-clothed man that Mark took to be Marquess Araphen was busy conversing with a tall general. They both turned as the group approached, and the armored man's face lit up with recognition.

"That's him, milord!"

The general walked over, his armor creating a din, and grabbed Mark's arm, shaking it violently. Mark grimaced.

"You've got a strong grip."

"Sorry," said the general. He turned to Marquess Araphen. "This is the man that helped us when the west barracks were on fire!"

"You told us you just made a hole in a wall," said Kent. The general chortled.

"This man made a hole in a wall, then carried wounded men on his back! Not to mention he stayed behind to help with the bandaging." The general slid off his left gauntlet to show a hand wrapped in gauze. "Very nice job with the bandages, by the way."

"I do my best," said Mark.

The marquess cleared his throat pointedly.

"Oh, right. May I present to you The Most Honorable Marquess of Araphen, Lord Aion."

Marquess Araphen waved the general away and stepped forward, spotting Rath.

"Rath! An excellent performance!"

Rath gave a slight bow.

"Sir… If you have praise, it should be given to this group."

"Hm? Who's this, then?"

Lyn curtsied. "My name is Lyndis."

Marquess Araphen raised his eyebrows. "_You're_ Lyndis? Rath, leave us for a moment."

Rath bowed, turned, and walked away to check on his soldiers. The general clanked after him.

"Now… Lady Lyndis. Do you know the identity of those responsible for this uproar?"

Mark tensed. He had a feeling that the Marquess already knew the answer. Lyn seemed clueless.

"I believe it to be the work of my granduncle, Lundgren."

Marquess Araphen sneered. "Right. My castle has been damaged in your family's petty inheritance dispute.

Mark slightly agreed with the Marquess's statement, but there was no need to put it so harshly. Then again, perhaps the Marquess was angry that his soldiers had been injured.

"My artwork! My glorious art! Do you have _any idea_ how long it took to amass my collection?"

Then again, perhaps the Marquess was just selfish. Mark felt a strange, cold emotion grow within him.

"I've withdrawn my offer of assistance."

_Whoa! Not cool!_

Kent leapt forward. "You gave me your word, milord!"

"Your name is Kent, is it not? You forgot to inform me of one vital detail! Don't you think that Marquess Caelin would be troubled to meet this… this nomadic mongrel?"

"What?" asked Lyn.

"You—" Sain lunged forward, but Kent restrained him.

"Hm. Your man is poorly disciplined."

"Milord, please!" Kent looked desperate, and Mark, in spite of himself, felt pity for him. "If you would grace us with your aid…"

"Marquess Caelin is ill," said Marquess Araphen, "I do not think he is long for this world, and I do not think that he would be able to live long enough to meet this girl. Lord Lundgren will rise to power, and I do not want to anger him."

_He's ill?_

Mark felt that strange emotion beginning to grow stronger. It was similar to anger, but it was not white-hot. Instead, it was an ice-cold anger, anger that left him clear-headed, yet ready to slaughter the world.

Lyn looked angrier than Mark had ever seen her. "I am proud of the Sacae blood that runs through my veins. I will NOT accept aid from one who disparages my heritage."

"Good," said Marquess Araphen. "Then leave."

Lyn turned and walked down the tunnel from which she had come, followed by her group. Mark remained behind. Sain gave him a quizzical look, but Mark waved him off.

The castle was silent as Mark stared at the Marquess. Every soldier in the room watching.

"Well, young man," said Marquess Araphen, "I suppose you will be wanting a reward for your services."

"No reward is necessary," said Mark.

"Well well! I am surprised to meet someone of your caliber traveling with that—"

"You had a very nice art collection."

"Y-yes," said Marquess Araphen. "I did, thank you."

"How valuable were those paintings?"

"Unbelievably valuable," said Marquess Araphen, with a hint of pride. "And now its all gone, thanks to that blasted—"

"Is that the reason you sent Lyndis away?"

"Partly," said Marquess Araphen, "Mostly because she was Sacaen."

"Are those the only reasons?"

"Mostly," said Marquess Araphen. "Why?"

"You asshole."

The soldiers gasped in unison, and the general opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish. Rath remained quiet as Marquess Araphen sputtered in anger.

"H-how d-dare—"

"Racist talk doesn't bother me," said Mark. "It's just words, intangible and easily lost among the winds."

"W-well—"

"Art!" Mark spat the word out like a vile swearword. "Sheets of canvas! Bits of paint! Splatter something on the wall and it's more valuable than a man! Miners harvest diamonds from the bowels of the earth for pittances as sculptors hammer _gravel_ for enormous sums! It disgusts me! _You_ disgust me!"

Marquess Araphen was sputtering so much that he could not manage a retort. The soldiers still looked on in awe.

"Look upon your men! Burnt and broken! You don't even care one bit for them, do you?"

"What does that have to do with _anything_?" roared Marquess Araphen. His soldiers stared at the ground.

"The number of soldiers washing your nearly-empty castle was large, while the number of men washing down the barracks was small. As I helped Rath rescue soldiers, the numbers dwindled to_ nothingness_! There were people trapped inside the barracks, yet you diverted soldiers from the building to put out the flames on your _art_!"

"I—"

"Furthermore, I noticed something. Lord Lundgren just attacked_ you_! You should be siding with us, you jackass!"

"Soldiers! Seize him! _Now_!"

The soldiers adorning the walls shifted uncomfortably.

"Did you hear me? _Seize him_!"

Mark grinned his signature wide-eyed, evil grin.

"I've made friends, Lord Aion. Soldiers love a medic."

Mark spat at the Marquess's feet and turned. Rath passed him, walking towards Marquess Araphen. He began to speak in low tones that Mark could not hear.

"_Psst_!"

Mark looked to the side to see a group of soldiers. One of them walked over.

"Could you give us your name?"

"Lord Misery," said Mark, the corner of his mouth twitching.

The soldier pressed something into Mark's right hand.

"We're extremely grateful, milord Misery. Take this as a token of our thanks."

The soldier broke away from Mark and leaned against the wall as Rath appeared at Mark's shoulder.

"Well?" asked Mark. "Are you going to kill me for your lord's honor? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that these lads'll protect me."

"I would like to travel with your group," said Rath emotionlessly. Mark whirled around.

"Oh gosh! We didn't get you fired, did we?"

"No," said Rath. "I quit. I am Sacaen too, and I will not have someone insulting my heritage."

"Pfft," said Mark. "Honor. Religion. Relieve yourself of those things, Rath, and be free."

Rath remained emotionless.

"You, my good man, are boring. But welcome aboard."

* * *

Lyn watched as Rath galloped out of the city, Mark holding on for dear life. She felt as though she had betrayed the group, for they would now be facing the armies of Caelin without support. Mark would no doubt go ballistic.

And so she was surprised when Mark calmly asked her to come with him. They walked off into the woods, alone. When they were quite a distance away from the group, Mark turned to Lyn.

"Well. It seems that the plot has thickened, Lyn."

They stared at each other for a long moment, then both spoke at the same time.

"I'm sorry."

"I apologize."

Lyn gave a small laugh as Mark's mouth twitched. He cleared his throat.

"You don't have to apologize. My actions were inexcusable."

Lyn shook her head. "I should not have pushed you. It is _you_ who should not have to apologize."

Mark chuckled. "Shall we have a duel, then? To see who is deserving of apology? I've got my shotgun, so I'll win."

His expression turned serious.

"Listen, Lyn. Your grandfather's sick and dying. There's no need to beat around the bush. I know that this may seem kind of corny, but since I _am_ in a medieval setting…."

Mark dropped to one knee and bowed before Lyn.

"I, Mark Maurice Bristow, pledge myself to your service. I will do everything in my meager power to protect you from harm and deliver you to safety. I—"

"Mark! Get up!"

Lyn grabbed Mark's arm and lifted him up, blushing fiercely.

"There is no need for that!" she cried.

"I thought it would be a nice gesture…"

Lyn smiled, feeling extraordinarily happy. Mark was such an odd man. But he had a good soul.

She grabbed him around the waist and pulled him into a deep hug. Mark tensed, then hesitantly returned the embrace.

"Lyn, _I can't breathe_."

* * *

Phew. For some strange reason, it took a while to write this chapter, and I feel that it is lacking. Oh well. I make do.

Read and review, please. There's bound to be typos in there… _somewhere_.

_Over the rainbow…_


	8. Siblings Abroad

I don't really like writing battle scenes, or at least not the ones from Lyn's story. Everyone knows how they end, and they amount to little more than tiny skirmishes. But anyway, here's chapter eight.

Chapter 8: A Great and Beautiful Monstrosity

* * *

"And so, I hope that you all can forgive me."

Mark cleared his throat. He felt very embarrassed, standing on a rock and making an apology speech to the group. But Lyn was standing next to him for support, and he waited for replies.

"You know that I've already forgiven you," said Sain, who was sitting on a stump as his horse grazed in the distance. The rest of the group was silent, then…

"You gave me a way to help my wife," said Dorcas. He turned and looked to Serra and Erk.

"You really did scare us, back there," Serra told Mark. "But since I _am _an awesome and selfless priestess in service to Saint Elimine, I shall forgive you." Erk nodded in agreement.

Mark turned to Wil, who looked sheepish.

"I… I thought it was kind of funny…."

Mark snorted with laughter.

All eyes turned to Kent, who had been standing far away from the rest of the group, leaning against a tree.

"Well, Kent?"

Kent stepped forward and offered a hand.

"You've got some problems," said Kent. "Some really big ones. You need help, but you're… not that bad. I forgive you."

Mark reached out to shake his hand, but Matthew stopped him.

"You two just had some sort of near-lethal fight, and you're gonna shake _hands_? Hug!"

"Okay," said Mark. He spread his arms wide, but Kent backed away.

"No," said Kent, but the rest of the group wasn't caring.

"_Hug! Hug! Hug!_"

"Kent, that is an order!" laughed Lyn.

Reluctantly, Kent hugged Mark. He let go quickly as everyone cheered.

"Never speak of this again," muttered Kent. Mark merely grinned.

They were now taking a marching towards Caelin. Mark had expected heavy fighting, but, for some reason, they had not encountered any resistance from the Caelin army. They had just reached a small town called Khathelet, and Lyn had decided to stop and rest.

Now that Mark was done with his speech, everyone began to set up camp. Mark wandered off to find a place to hang his hammock, wanting to sleep.

He found a couple of trees near what looked like an inn and set up the hammock. It was a bit far away from Lyn's camp, but he was a fast runner and a loud screamer, so he knew what to do if something went wrong. It was a nice place, really. The air was a little humid, but in all, a good place to sleep.

Mark reached deep into this pocket and pulled out the object the Araphen soldiers had given him. A white gem. Matthew had told him that the gems were extremely valuable, meant to be sold, but Mark had refused. You couldn't sell gifts.

He took off Lyn's father's cloak and hung it on a branch, then laid the shotgun against a tree. He sighed contentedly and lay on his back.

* * *

"But sir… why? You were so kind yesterday…."

The innkeeper looked furious.

"I thought you were just two kids, a couple of traveling performers... If those men are chasing you, you must be up to no good! Now get up and get out! You're a plague on decent folk!"

The innkeeper picked Nils up by the scruff of his neck and threw him bodily out of the inn, slamming the door in his face.

Nils sat up, rubbing his neck. He felt his eyes beginning to water up, and he bit his lip. Crying wouldn't help his sister, but it was hard not to. This day had gone from bad to worse….

The rustling of cloth in the wind made Nils look up. He spotted a cloak hung over a branch, a strange walking stick, and a man dozing in a hammock. He was wearing the strangest clothes Nils had ever seen, but Nils could see that he was armed. Maybe he could help Ninian.

Nils got to his feet, then hesitated. The man was human, and humans had been nothing but trouble ever since he had arrived in this place.

"_Spread out and find him_!"

Nils gasped. The men were getting closer, so he ran over to the man, screaming.

"Mister! You've got to help us!"

The man woke with a yell and flailed his arms. The hammock flipped over and he hit the ground. Nils was at his side in an instant.

"There are men after me!" he cried, hopping from one foot to another.

"Good God," said the man. "A group of pedophiles… No matter.…"

The man blinked sleepily and got to his feet. Nils looked over his shoulder and saw that two men, an archer and a shaman, were nearing them. Nils hid behind the strange man, who grabbed a strange walking stick that had been leaning against the tree trunk.

"Found him!" cried the archer. "Back to Nergal with you, lad!"

The oddly-dressed man stepped forward, flipping a switch on his strange weapon.

"Nergal, the Babylonian god of war and pestilence. Your boss has an _interesting_ name."

"Who're you?" asked the archer.

"I am Mark, but _you_ may call me Lord Misery," said the man, grinning.

The archer fired an arrow at Mark, but it skipped off his vest. Mark pulled out long dagger from a sheath on his shoulder and threw it, hitting the archer in the throat.

"Wanna run?" Mark asked the shaman as the archer hit the ground with a gurgle.

"Be careful! He's a shaman! A practitioner of the dark arts!" cried Nils. This _Mark_ seemed to have no idea about who he was facing.

"Fool," said the shaman. He put his hands together in front of him, thumbs touching, and waggled his fingers, chanting in a strange tongue. Mark cocked his head and listened: the man's voice had changed. It had been normal, but now sounded as though one thousand people were chanting at once.

"Nice effect," said Mark, going into a crouch.

A small orb of energy surrounded the man's hands and disappeared. The sky darkened as a ball of impenetrable black appeared over the shaman's head, while Nils felt a sudden sense of foreboding.

The ball fell apart and oozed into the ground like some viscous fluid, then an intricate design formed around Mark's feet. He stood in astonishment as the darkness flowed up to meet him.

"No!" yelled Nils as Mark disappeared in an inky cloud. The shaman threw back his head and laughed.

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha!—eh?"

Mark stumbled out of the darkness, shaking his head and coughing.

"Nice."

"H-h-how? I-I've killed _hundreds _with that spell…"

Mark took two steps forward and lunged for the shaman, shotgun forgotten. The shaman snapped his fingers, and two circles appeared around him, with runes in the middle. A teleportation spell, Nils realized. The man was getting away!

However, Mark smashed into the man before the shaman could be whisked away, and bore him to the ground. He then pulled out the strangest knife Nils had ever seen (it had two handles) and drove it into the shaman's chest. Nils flinched and turned away as Mark pulled the knife out and drove it back in, over and over. The shaman struggled and kicked, then was still.

Mark stood up, his clothes splattered with blood. He stared sadly at the man beneath him.

"I think I went overboard… is that his spellbook?"

A black tome lay on the ground. Nils nodded. Mark picked it up and examined it.

"Tricky little bugger, that guy was."

"Are you all right?" asked Nils.

"I think so," said Mark, staring off into the distance. "Go to the south; you'll find my comrades there. Tell them what happened, and I'll be with you shortly."

"Thank you!" Nils ran off. Perhaps there was hope after all.

* * *

Mark stared at the tome as though waiting for it to swallow him up. The man had cast a spell, and it had hit him. It had permeated his very soul, invaded his mind. And yet, it had done nothing. Odd.

The shaman had tried to teleport away. His teleportation spell had looked exactly like the rings that Koheleth had used to bring him to this world. If Mark learned this _dark magic_, perhaps he could get back home.

He wondered what the spell was called. He knew that Erk's spell was called "Fire". So, what was this spell called?

_Flux_.

Mark blinked. _Flux_? Where had that come from? _He_ hadn't thought it. It was as if the name of the spell had implanted itself in his mind.

"Odd," said Mark, to no one in particular.

However, the spellbook looked so… _inviting_. It was bound in leather, and seemed to call out to him.

_Mark_.

It _was_ calling out to him!

Slowly, without thinking, Mark held the book in his left hand and pulled his other glove off with his teeth. He let the glove fall to the ground, and laid a hand on the book's spine.

* * *

Lyn came running up to Mark. "Mark, we… Mark?"

Mark was standing perfectly still, staring at the book in his hands. Lyn snapped her fingers in front of his face.

"Hello? Mark? MARK!"

* * *

Mark was sitting in a meadow. A large meadow, stretching off into eternity, surrounded by an expanse of blue sky. He had left his weaponry behind, as well as his right glove.

Mark turned left and right. No wildlife. No sounds. No wind. Each blade of grass stood perfectly still. It was the first time in Mark's life that he heard nothing but utter silence. For a person who had grown up in New York, it was nice, but a little disconcerting.

In the distance a plume of black smoke was rising, curling in the air. Mark first thought that there was a fire, but he looked closer at the smoke. There was not enough smoke for there to be a fire, and it looked too heavy to be ordinary smoke, as if it was reluctant to rise into the air. _Furthermore_, it didn't dissipate like ordinary smoke; it didn't spread out and disappear.

A figure was coming towards him. He screwed up his eyes, then he remembered that he had binoculars in one of his belt pockets. He grabbed it and looked through the lenses.

Through the binoculars he saw _something_. Mark adjusted the binocular settings.

It was shaped like a man, a tall, thin man wearing long, flowing robes. As it moved, its robes turned into the strange smoke, rising towards the sky. A cool effect, worthy of a Hollywood movie, but the creature was terrifying.

It had a variety of blades stuck through its chest, some curved, some straight, some serrated for tearing flesh, some short, and some long. Blood was splattered everywhere, all over its robes.

It had pale skin, paler than Mark's, black hair, and was missing the bottom portion of its jaw. Its tongue hung from its mangled mouth, unnaturally long and dripping blood, while its neck was broken and lying on the creature's left shoulder. Its eyes were bright red, glinting with otherworldly intelligence, and it was staring directly at Mark.

To Mark, the most terrifying part of the creature was the way it moved. Its thin arms and legs lay limp as it _floated_. It _floated_ through the meadow, and it didn't move a muscle, like a statue on a conveyer belt. As it came closer, Mark noticed its effect on the grass; as the creature passed through the meadow, the plants blackened and drooped, beginning to rot.

Mark thought about running. But, for some strange reason, he knew that he would tire, while the creature would never tire, chasing him to the ends of the world. It would be better to give up, to surrender….

_NO! Chase me, you unnatural son of a goat! Chase me till your tongue shrivels up and falls from your face!_

Mark turned away to run, and found himself face to face with the creature. It carried with it the overpowering stench of funeral flowers and breathed in rattling gasps, struggling to get air through its broken neck. Then it spoke.

"I must say, you seem rather frightened of me. Oh well. It cannot be helped. Mortals are _always_ frightened of me. I cannot help how I look, you know."

The creature stared at Mark, who was in absolute shock. The thing had a strange, upbeat sing-song voice that did not match its body. Besides, how could the thing speak? It didn't have a mouth!

"Well, I cannot pretend that it doesn't bother me. I've had a glimpse of your mind, and I was hoping that a being as intelligent as you would be able to speak to me. But it appears that I am mistaken. _Mistaken_! I haven't been mistaken since… never! Calamity!"

"I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I—"

"We are getting somewhere. Joy! The last person I talked to _died_. Of a heart attack. Then again, he wasn't exactly young…."

Mark continued to stutter. The creature gazed at him, then sighed.

"It's strange. Humans are so complex, yet so predicable… I assume you would like to ask the standard questions, so I shall answer. To the best of my abilities, that is."

The creature cleared its broken throat.

"My name is Gabriel. A plain name for one with a _most_ complex job, but it suits me fine. You are not dead, and I am no demon, although some would consider me to be. You are in the heart of darkness."

"The heart of darkness?"

"It speaks! But anyway, yes, you are in the realm of the dark, from which shamans and their ilk draw their power. It constantly changes shape; some days it's a meadow and other days it's an industrial wasteland, replicating the constantly-changing nature of the dark."

Mark was highly confused. "So, how did I get here?"

"Hmm," said Gabriel, "You _are_ intelligent. The normal man would have been reduced to a gibbering wreck…. I brought you here, little mortal, through the power of a Flux tome. Dark magic tomes are direct connections to the heart of darkness."

"_You_ brought me here?" asked Mark.

"Yes, young mortal. I felt a rather large amount of pity for you when you first arrived. A person with a fragile emotional state being forced into something huge… So cruel.…"

"So, I didn't come here to help Lyn?" asked Mark. He had already asked Koheleth the same question, but he hadn't trusted him.

"Helping Lyn is the tip of the iceberg. This is Koheleth's planet, so, naturally, he searched the universe for a suitable candidate to save it. You, apparently, were the most convenient, although Koheleth had to be wary of your… rather _nasty_ temperament."

"_Why_ did you bring me here?" asked Mark, feeling a little exasperated.

"I told you, I felt pity for you. I've been watching this drama play out, and thought that, since the odds are stacked against you, you could use a little support."

"Koheleth's supporting me."

"Ah yes," the creature stiffly raised his right arm and waggled it in the air. "Like the annoying little bugger he is, he has recently, _very recently_, decided to stop assisting you. Very rude, I must say."

"_What_?"

"My thoughts exactly. He is now spending his time searching for people to replace you. Due to your recent outburst he has anticipated your demise, and has subsequently lost all faith in you."

"Son of a _bitch_!"

"He is, isn't he?" said Gabriel. "Koheleth is not exactly the most liked being in the cosmos. I, personally, can barely stand him. I will fulfill his role as mentor, and I hope that I shall be not as condescending."

The creature stopped talking and stared intently at Mark, who was deep in thought.

"How… how will I contact you? I don't want to be sucked into this world ever time I grab that Flux book."

"Ah, yes. You wish to learn dark magic… I can help with that as well, if you would allow me the honor of being your teacher…. Here."

The creature reached up to its chest and wrapped a hand around the hilt of one of the weapons piercing his chest. He pulled it out with a sickening squish.

"A knife. You like knives, correct?"

The creature held out an ornamental dagger, made of smoky quartz.

"I wouldn't recommend stabbing anyone with it, but focus your will on this knife and you will arrive here. I recommend doing it at nighttime, when no one shall disturb you."

Mark shook his head to clear his thoughts, then gingerly took the knife from Gabriel. It was unnaturally cold.

"Well… thank you."

The creature laughed. "You have another question. Ask."

"That dark magic spell. Why didn't it—"

"Hurt you?" Gabriel scratched his nose, his head wobbling. "Well, Mark, humans are all born with varying levels of magical resistance, just like some people are born with black hair, and others brown. Your magical resistance is _extraordinarily_ high. I must say, you, with your resistance and vest, are practically a living armored vehicle."

"You're a lot better to talk to than Koheleth," said Mark. "You scare the living shit out of me, but thanks."

"Do not mention—MARK!"

Mark jumped back. "Wha—"

"MARK! ANSWER ME!"

"MARK!"

* * *

Mark was flung back into reality. He was lying on the ground, surrounded by a concerned Lyndis's Legion. They all sighed with relief.

"You can't keep out of trouble, can you?" asked Sain.

"Nope. I'm starting to think I'm more trouble than I'm worth," said Mark. He got up with a groan, then noticed his hands were empty.

Where was the knife? Had he just imagined it all? Perhaps he had.

He looked around and blinked. A red-haired man in a blue cape was standing next to some girl, probably Nils's sister. Mark turned to Lyn.

"Explain."

* * *

"_You attacked a fortress for a ring_?"

"Ninian was really sad. I could not help it" protested Lyn.

Mark sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Well, as long as no one was injured. _I'm_ a little sad that you burned the Flux, but—"

"We had no choice!" cried Lyn. "You were just standing there, clutching it, like you were under some sort of spell! We thought that—"

"Yes, yes I know," said Mark. "You thought destroying the book would snap me out of it. I thank you for trying."

He stared at the ground, then smiled up at Lyn. "Get some food. I need to rest, but tell Eliwood that I said thank you."

Lyn left, and Mark stumbled to his hammock, feeling miserable. He had liked Gabriel, even if he had looked like something out of a horror novel. Mark had thought that he had gained a valuable ally, but now he felt as though the universe were allied against him.

Chocolate. He needed chocolate. Mark carefully leaned over and grabbed the duffel bag, unzipping it and reaching in. His hand closed around icy stone, and Mark pulled out a quartz dagger. He stared at it for a long moment, then smiled.

_Awesome_.

* * *

Ha. I love writing for Gabriel, but he freaks me out, even though he's my creation.

Anyway, I have a announcement, and a little homework for you.

Since school will be starting again, I will have midterms (my school now puts them _after_ Christmas Break, which I hate) and I will busy. This story's update rates may slow for a bit. I ask you to bear with me, please.

Anyway, here's two little questions I would like you to figure out (both very easy).

1) What is the significance of Mark's middle name being Maurice?

2) What's the significance of Gabriel's name?

If you guys can figure those questions out, I will give you… nothing. I just thought you would like something to do, so forgive my presumptions and answer the questions, if you would like.

As usual, read, review, and inform me of typos. Happy New Year.


	9. A Grim Reunion

* * *

Sorry for the long wait. My exams were incredibly tough (stupid International Baccalaureate). Half my friends have dropped out of the program… But anyway, that's sad talk. I'm pleased to present the next chapter of _Shells_, created after a long period of time. By the way, I skipped a level. The ballista level, to be exact. It's a useless level, nothing happens, so I'm getting right to the good stuff: General Wallace. I've increased his strength, for I think he should be more badass (combat wise) than portrayed in the game. He's the guy who trained Sain and Kent, for Pete's sake!

I'll renew my Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. Or Apple (I mentioned an iPod). Or duct tape. Is duct tape copyrighted? I don't feel like finding out.

Chapter 9: Fac fortia et patere

* * *

Lyn leaned on a tree, watching her group. Wil was with Mark, teaching him how to use the whittling knife. Kent was dragging Sain away from Florina, Dorcas was chopping firewood, and Serra was talking to Erk, who was desperately trying to concentrate on a book. Lucius, the newest member of the group, sat on a log, perfectly still, as Ninian and Nils looked on in bemusement. Matthew had run off somewhere, and Rath was on lookout duty.

Lyn smiled. If it weren't for the fact that the group was heavily armed, passerby would think that the Legion was no more than a bunch of picnickers. She, however, could not relax.

As they marched, she had noticed Mark looking around, his shoulders scrunched up as though he expected the sky to fall on him. She had asked him what the matter was, and he had said that he expected the full force of the Caelin Army to descend upon them at any moment. Lyn had dismissed this as mere paranoia, but Mark had some truth to his words. They had soon encountered a Caelin force, which had been armed with a ballista. Nevertheless, Mark's tactics had made quick work of them.

They had met Eliwood after the skirmish, and he had promised that no other countries would get involved in Caelin's plight. It was more than she could have hoped.

"_ERKY! IT'S A BEE!_"

She would face anything Lundgren threw at her. She had to, for her grandfather depended on her. However, if any of her companions fell in combat due to her family's dispute, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

"_KILL IT WITH FIRE!"_

Mark walked over to escape the noise, slashing away at the block of wood that he had been carrying. He held it out to Lyn.

"Does this look like anything to you?"

Lyn stared closely. From _this_ angle it looked like a mass of splinters, but from _this _angle….

"A bird?"

Mark clapped his hands together.

"It's taking shape! Awesome!"

Lyn smiled grimly and looked off into the distance. Mark noticed.

"Hello? Lyn? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Mark, but—"

"Hey, you used a contraction!"

"A what?" asked Lyn.

"A contraction!" said Mark. "You said 'I'm' instead of 'I am'!"

"Oh," said Lyn. "Well, I guess I've been influenced by Sain and Kent. It's easier, and I think my grandfather will like it."

Mark looked confused and cocked an eyebrow. "Why would your grandfather care about the way you speak?"

Lyn sighed.

"You remember what Marquess Araphen said?"

"That asshole? He was all hot air and spittle."

"He told me that my grandfather would be troubled to meet a nomadic mongrel."

"And _I_ told him he was a jackass. Then his soldiers gave me a gemstone, because they probably agreed with me."

"Mark…" said Lyn., exasperated. He wasn't getting the full picture. "I may have noble blood, but I'm still a plainswoman. I don't think I'll fit in. I mean, I've lived on the plains all my life. I know nothing about politics or court manners or… or…."

"Chocolate?"

Lyn looked up. "_Chocolate_?"

Mark was holding out a bar wrapped in a shiny paper. "You need chocolate. It'll make you feel better."

"No, but thank you," said Lyn.

"Fine," said Mark. "More for me." He ripped off the wrapper and shoved half the bar into his mouth. He swallowed and noisily cleared his throat.

"Walk with me, Lyn." Mark walked off. Lyn stared after him, then hurried to catch up. Mark finished his chocolate bar and looked to Lyn.

"It seems odd that you would care about all that stuff, Lyn. It's not like you. Manners? Pfeh. Politics? I would rather you not get involved in politics, Lyn. It's a nasty business. Your _primary_ concern should be meeting your grandfather."

"I know," said Lyn. "I'm just worried. What if he doesn't like me?"

"He sent two knights after you. I guess he likes you already, Lyn, and he hasn't even seen you. Besides, remember all the stuff Sain said about him? He'll be great."

"And if he's not?" asked Lyn. "I'll be alone…."

"No you won't," Mark said, "You've got Florina and me."

"What?" asked Lyn, as Mark yawned sleepily.

"Florina and I are your friends, right? So you've got nothing to worry about. You'll never be completely _alone_."

Mark rubbed his eyes. "Fog's coming in."

Lyn turned. Mark was right: the fog was rolling in, as thick as soup. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned back to Mark, who was wearing a kind smile.

"Listen, Lyn. Life's tough. You among all people should know that. There'll be people that won't like you. You try to reason with them, but they'll never stop hating you. They'll hate you for your heritage, your political beliefs, your gender, your sexual orientation… whatever. Maybe they'll hate you just for being you. The only thing you have to remember is that they don't matter. Your goals, your dreams, your friends… that's what matters. When life gives you lemons, throw them back and pick some mangos. 'Cause mangos are better than lemons will ever be. Lemons are sour, while mangos are the best food in the world. Wait… I'm going off on a tangent… What was I saying…? I had a point…."

"You've made it," said Lyn, a warm feeling growing inside her. "Mark… thank you."

"Feeling better?" asked Mark. "I think we should go back."

"Let's," said Lyn.

The two turned and began to walk towards the camp, but a question popped up in Lyn's mind.

"Mark, what's a mango?"

Mark stopped dead. "What?"

"I asked you what a mango was," repeated Lyn.

Mark paled. "Y-you don't _know_?"

Lyn shook her head. Mark looked horrified, and he ran towards the camp.

"Sain! _Sain_!"

Sain came out of his tent. "What?"

"Have you ever heard of a mango?"

"Mango?" Sain looked thoughtful. "No, I've never heard of one."

Mark whirled around. "Kent?"

"Sorry, but no,' said Kent.

"Wil?"

"Um… no. Never."

"Serra? Erk?"

"Nope," said Serra. Erk shook his head.

"Rath?"

"Dorcas?"

"Lucius?"

"Florina?"

"Nils?"

"Ninian?"

"Matthew?"

"Bird?"

"Rabbit?"

"Rock?"

The humans shook their heads no, the rabbit bounded away, and the bird ignored him. The rock said nothing.

Mark dropped to his knees and raised his head and hands to the sky. He took a deep breath and let out a long, heartfelt expletive.

* * *

"No mangos! Damn you, Koheleth! No_ mangos_! It's an outrage!"

Mark had needed some alone time, so he had wandered away from the camp. This was just too much. This accursed dimension didn't have mangos! Unthinkable!

Mark walked on, taking a path in between the mountains and a cliff. If he encountered any enemies, he would lose them in the fog. Besides, he had Apologetic Irony with him.

There was a gust of wind, and the fog covered the entire landscape. Mark stopped. He had never been in fog this thick; he could see no more than ten feet in any direction. He pulled out his compass. He was facing north, so he slowly turned until he was facing south, then began walking, keeping his eyes on the device.

No matter what dimension one was in, fog was very odd, no doubt about it. Not only did it block Mark's vision, it seemed to block his hearing; everything was quiet; the only sound was Mark's muffled footsteps. He had no judge of distance, and had no idea where the camp was. The only way he would find it was if he walked right on top of it.

The fog closed in, making Mark feel claustrophobic. He couldn't hear the sound of his own breathing unless he took deep breaths. It was a suffocating feeling. Honestly, if he didn't find the camp in the next fifteen seconds, he would—

"Oof!"

Mark walked right into a wall and bounced off. Great. He was lost. Just great…

Mark heard the clanking of armored boots as the wall turned and stared down at him.

"Waargh! Who is this, skulking around in the fog like a thief? Who are you? Answer me, scrawny whelp!"

"Who're you calling whelp, you lump of lard?" asked Mark, sounding braver than he looked. The man was huge, looking seven feet tall, and was wearing the armor of a knight. A enemy Caelin Knight, probably.

The armored behemoth gave a huge grin. "Fool! I am Lord Wallace, ex-commander of the Knights of Caelin! Have at you!"

The knight roared with laughter and swung an armored left fist, but Mark, trained by the Marines, was no slouch in the realm of hand-to-hand combat. He ducked under the blow and ran under Wallace's arm, going behind the man. Wallace roared with glee and turned.

"Ha ha ha…! What?"

Mark used the fog to cloak himself, slowly circling the knight, who was looking left and right. He softly cleared his throat and prepared his demon voice.

"_Where am I? Help me_."

"Ha!" yelled Wallace. "You can't scare me, whelp! Come out! Come out so I may crush you!"

"_Help me_."

"Eeargh!"

Wallace lunged to the side, his lance leading the way. Mark avoided it narrowly by sucking in his stomach and throwing back his waist. Even so, the lance grazed his vest. Mark grabbed the weapon, slid under it, rolled, and got to his feet, only to find that Wallace was already on the offensive.

"Yargh!"

Wallace's fist leapt forward like an uncoiling snake. Mark sidestepped it, grabbed it and pulled Wallace forward. As Wallace passed him, Mark hit his back, a blow that would have sent most men sprawling. Wallace simply planted his right foot in the ground and laughed.

"Impressive!"

Wallace twirled his lance like a baton and sent the butt of the weapon at Mark's chin. Mark moved his head to the side, but the lance clipped his jawbone, and the force of the blow knocked him off his feet and onto the ground, his face throbbing with pain. He recovered quickly and rolled away as Wallace tried to kick him. He got up, but the knight swung his lance like a bat, tangling his feet. He hit the ground; Wallace laughed, then placed his boot on Mark's chest.

"Ha ha ha! Good show, young pup! Good show! I haven't had that much fun in _years_!"

"You're really good," said Mark, rubbing his jaw. It hurt badly.

"Of course! There are none stronger than the Knights of Caelin!"

"Do you… do you know a guy by the name of Sain?"

"Hahahahahahah—ha? Yes, I know a Sain. I'm looking for him, and a lad named Kent. You know where they are, young man?"

"Yes."

Mark didn't know why he was revealing this information to the man. However, he felt at ease. This Wallace guy reminded him of his old Drill Instructor.

Wallace removed his boot from Mark's chest and grabbed the front of his vest, pulling him to his feet.

"Lead the way, whelp!"

"My name is Mark," said Mark, but Wallace ignored him,

"You fight well!" said Wallace, slamming a hand down on Mark's shoulder. Mark winced. "Using the fog like that… ha! I like it!"

"I would have lost in two seconds without the fog," said Mark. "So I have nothing to brag about."

"Har har har! That you would have, whelp! That you would have!"

* * *

"I'd planned on living out my days in peace on my farm... Ah, well... It looks as though it's time to take up arms once more. Whelp! You're the tactician of this group, correct? What are my orders?"

"My name is Mark," said Mark.

"You'll always be 'whelp' to me!" roared Wallace. He pulled the boonie from Mark's head and tousled his hair. "I have a suggestion!"

"Okay…"

Wallace reached into his satchel and pulled out a strange badge. "Lord Eagler is very strong, so we'll have a hard time beating him. See this? It's called a Knight Crest. If I use it, I'll become stronger than ever! A terrifying thought, no? Ha ha! Eagler won't stand a chance!"

"So use it," said Mark straightening his hair and grabbing his boonie from Wallace.

"I shall," shouted Wallace. He smashed the crest into his chest.

"Right… AH!"

Mark leapt backward as several lighting bolts came out of nowhere and stuck Wallace. Electricity played of his armor in arcs, and he disappeared in a pillar of light.

"Wallace!"

Another pillar of light appeared a few feet from where Wallace had disappeared. He materialized with a few more lightning bolts, his armor glowing. Mark stared.

His armor was now identical to the Araphen general's armor. However, Wallace cut a much more imposing figure.

"Ha ha ha! Look! A giant walks among you! Tremble, for I am stronger than the foundations of the very _earth_! Come! Break your weapons upon me!"

"I… wow," said Mark. "That's… just wow…."

He shook his head to clear it. Lyndis's Legion was now unstoppable. He just knew it.

"Wallace… take point. You'll be leading the charge."

Mark and Wallace ran towards the river. The Legion was already holding off the first of the attackers, a mix of Caelin soldiers and bandits, who were streaming across a single bridge. Wallace walked forward, brandishing an axe.

"Come to me, you tea-drinking, slipper-wearing, screaming bunch of tatties! Come!"

Sain and Kent drove their horses out of the way as Wallace stepped onto the bridge.

"Have at you!"

Wallace replaced skill and finesse with pure brute force, swinging the axe wildly at the swarm of enemies. Two heads dropped to the ground on his first swing. He took another step forward and swung his axe at a swordsman. He missed, and the mercenary leapt forward. His sword bounced off Wallace's armor.

"Ha ha har!"

Wallace smashed the man in the face with the axe handle and stepped over the body. Mark winced. Such raw violence. He turned to the Legion and swung his arm.

"Push forward!"

* * *

"Now I see how the Nazis invaded Poland," muttered Mark as he surveyed the carnage created by the Legion's blitzkrieg. Dead bodies and dismembered limbs were everywhere, courtesy of Wallace's axe.

"He's _really_ good," said Mark to Lyn. Lyn nodded.

"EAGLER! I CHALLEGE YOU!" roared Wallace, his voice reverberating across the field. He began pounding his armor like a mad gorilla, and the drumbeat was soon matched with the clattering of horse hooves.

A heavily-armored horseman came forth, bearing a shield and lance. He pulled off his helm, revealing a man with green hair and mustache.

"General Wallace! _You've_ sided with the girl? It cannot be!"

"I fight for Caelin's honor, not for Lundgren's lies!" shouted Wallace.

"Fool! You are deluded!" Eagler yelled back.

"It is _you_ who are deluded, Eagler! Lady Lyndis is the true heiress to the throne of Caelin!"

Mark, who had been quietly watching the exchange, noticed a subtle tightening about Eagler's jaw.

"Eagler! You know Wallace is right!"

Mark took a few steps forward. "Come on. You're smart. You know Lundgren is evil!"

Eagler bit his lip, but said nothing.

"Eagler! Join us! We can restore Caelin's honor! We can restore yours as well!"

"Enough!" Eagler turned to Wallace. "You and me, Wallace! I accept your challenge!"

Eagler slapped his helmet back onto his head and drove his spurs into his horse's sides. The beast reared, and Eagler twirled his javelin before locking it underneath his arm. Wallace readied his lance.

The war horse hit the ground and began charging forward, hoof beats clattering across the battlefield. Wallace also ran forward, his armor clanking loudly. Mark winced. It looked as though there was going to be a head-on collision.

At the last second, Wallace dove wildly to the side, dropping his lance and pulling his axe from his back. He slashed at the horse's legs.

"Oh!" cried Mark. Sain and Kent recoiled, and Sain's horse gave a soft winny.

Eagler's mount fell to the ground, its forelegs severed. Eagler rolled and pulled a sword from his belt as Wallace picked up his lance.

Both strode forward.

Eagler went into a fury, his sword slashing at blinding speed as Wallace spun his lance, turning aside blows. The general even blocked some strikes with his left forearm. Eagler was aiming for the weakest point in Wallace's armor: the neck. Wallace couldn't match Eagler's speed, so a couple of blows hit him in the side. They failed to penetrate.

Eagler leapt back. "If I had an armorslayer…"

"Ha! If you had an armorslayer, I wouldn't allow you to hit me!"

Eagler smiled and caught his breath. "So, what? Will this battle continue for hours? Two evenly-matched opponents fighting, unable to win?"

"No."

"Why not?" asked Eagler. "Do you expect to beat me so easily?"

"Not me," said Wallace. "Him."

_BLAM_!

Wallace was an incredibly brave man, but even he couldn't help gasping in shock as Eagler's torso exploded. Eagler arched his back and fell forward, choking. Mark was splattered with gore. Mark looked terrified, and he dropped his shogun.

"I'm… sorry…" said Mark as the spent shell ejected from the shotgun and hit the ground. He was shaking. "This was supposed… to be… a duel of honor, wasn't it…? But… I'm sorry. We're… running out of… time…"

"Nnng..." said Eagler, struggling to rise. He failed. "Go... Go quickly. The marquess... he knows nothing of this... His life is... There's no illness. Only... poison... Please... for the marquess... for all of Caelin..."

Eagler spat up blood. He stared at the stain on the ground for a moment, then collapsed. Mark kneeled, reached over, and gently closed the man's eyes.

* * *

"What kind of man was General Eagler?" asked Lyn. The group was watching Mark dig Eagler's grave. Wallace had wanted to help, but Mark had refused.

"_I killed him… like a bloody… coward. I'm… digging this grave. Alone."_

"When Sain and I first became knights, he was our captain," said Kent, sadly. "Our teacher..."

"I think he must have known we were telling the truth. Why did he force the fight?"

Sain took a deep breath. "Something must have... Lord Lundgren was exerting some hold on him... Eagler was trying to protect someone. A friend perhaps, or family." He looked miserable.

Lyn looked back to the grave. Mark had finished, he was climbing out of the pit, his eyes moist. She gripped her sword.

"May Lundgren never know the peaceful embrace of Mother Earth! I care not what others do. I _will_ stop that man!"

Mark sat crossed legged on the ground and stared into the distance. Lyn sat beside him.

"Mark, are you alright?"

Mark sniffed. "I… want to go home…."

Lyn sighed. "Mark… you did what you had to do."

Mark's eyelids fluttered. He was fighting sleep. "Yes… it's for the greater… good. I'm a monster… Gabriel… we're both monsters… Rachel was right…"

"Mark?"

"Monsters… we're both… monsters…"

Mark's head listed to the side. Lyn bit her lip in anger. Lundgren would die. Horribly.

* * *

To be continued…

This chapter's a little shorter than my other ones, I think. Not a lot happened in it, I know, but I can't have brand new things happening to Mark every chapter, no?

Anyway, I guess I've got to answer the questions. Mark's middle name, Maurice, is related to his job as a combat medic. Saint Maurice is the patron saint of infantry soldiers and armies. As for Gabriel, he named after the archangel.


	10. The Distant Plains

It's been a long, hard journey, but here we are at Castle Caelin. I'm proud to present the end of Lyn's story. Thank, you, all my reviewers, for helping me get this far. There's more to come, of course, but thanks nonetheless.

Chapter 10: Of pseudo-endgames and farewells

* * *

"It's odd. Didn't you tell the nomad Rath to relieve himself of honor and be free?"

Mark paced back and forth. "This is different."

"Oh yes, young mortal," said Gabriel. "Things are always different when they happen to you."

Mark continued to pace.

The realm of the dark had changed. It was now a post-apocalyptic city, complete with crumbling skyscrapers and a sense of gloom. Gabriel, who apparently _could_ change his form at will, was a smiling, handsome businessman, clad in black suit and carrying a briefcase. However, he still had red eyes, and still carried with him the scent of funeral flowers, though the smell was milder than before. Above all, he still spoke in the same upbeat voice.

"I've killed people with that gun before… but they were bandits. Eagler deserved a better death."

"And what, little human," asked Gabriel, his eyes twinkling, "would you consider a _good _death? Being crushed under a carriage as you push a little girl out of its way? Donating some of your liver, but dying in the operation?"

"You know what I mean—"

"Death is death, Mark, no matter how stylish or glorious you are when you die. Battles should be fair? Life is not fair."

"It should be," said Mark.

Gabriel threw back his head and laughed.

"_It should be_! Such a quaint notion, young mortal! Humans themselves make the world unfair, Mark, and you are only human. Conform to the standards of your kind, and play dirty!"

Mark remained silent as Gabriel entered another laughing fit.

"The U.S. uses top-notch military equipment against its enemies. Is that not playing dirty?"

"We've had approximately four-thousand casualties!" protested Mark.

"As opposed to…"

Mark sighed. "Approximately twenty-thousand insurgents dead."

"Exactly." Gabriel leaned in close to Mark. "Your enemies shall grow stronger. You will not be able to match them strength for strength; you will need stealth and guile. Use every advantage, honorable or not, for you, young mortal, are no knight bound by petty chivalry. Your enemies must be but flowers crushed under your feet."

"I still don't like—"

"Good," said Gabriel, adjusting his tie. "If you begin to revel in death, then you have gone against everything that you have tried to become."

Mark sighed unhappily. He must have looked mutinous, for Gabriel continued talking.

"When is a medic permitted to fire his weapon?"

"When those under his care are in danger," answered Mark.

"Your soldiers are in danger, Mark," said Gabriel. "By killing the enemy you are giving the Legion more chances for life. Pity those you kill, yes, mourn them, yes, but _refuse_ to kill them, no."

"Right," said Mark.

"I also have another thing to talk about. You need to amp up your performance, Mark. Koheleth brought you into this world to keep the group together, not to tear it apart. You must be the anchor."

Mark stared at the ground. Yes, he hadn't exactly behaved like a leader. What he had done to Kent and Lyn was unacceptable, and he was lucky that they had been understanding enough to forgive him. "I understand."

Gabriel grinned widely.

"Cheer up, human! If you win the next battle, you will get a break!"

"A long one?" asked Mark, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Very long!" guffawed Gabriel. "And I shall give you a haircut! How about that?"

Mark smiled in spite of himself. "Sounds good."

"Righto, young man," said Gabriel. "Oh, and I have some information for you, concerning the next battle. Take care of Lord Wallace."

"_Wallace_?" Mark snorted. "Surely he doesn't need to be taken care of! He's a beast!"

However, Gabriel looked grave.

"_Look after him_, Mark! I truly mean it!"

"Fine, fine," said Mark, "It was nice talking, but I think I need to go back."

"Not so fast. I have something for you."

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and the briefcase lifted into the air. Gabriel opened it and slid it around so it faced Mark. Inside…

"MANGO!"

"Eat it, and then you can go," said Gabriel as Mark rushed forward, his hands outstretched. "I'll be watching over you."

"Like a guardian angel, eh?" asked Mark, cutting open the mango with his whittling knife.

For some reason, Gabriel found this very funny.

* * *

"Ugh! It's so wet!"

"Don't complain, Serra. At least Sain lent you his horse."

The group slogged through ankle-deep mud. It had been raining on and off, and Mark could see more storm clouds in the distance. His combat boots were perfectly suited to the task, but everyone else, especially the horses, was struggling.

"I'm not complaining!" said Serra. "I was making a statement!"

"My mistake," said Mark, glowing with contentment due to the fact that he had recently eaten his favorite foodstuff. He felt as though he could take on the world, and picked up the pace, high stepping through the mud until he caught up with Lyn.

"You'll be meeting your grandfather soon."

Lyn nodded, her face set and determined. Mark watched her for a moment, then slowed until he was walking by the side of Wallace.

"Feeling all right, big guy?"

"Haha! I'm feeling great, whelp! This mud shall not slow me; I shall simply slide across the top in an unstoppable charge!"

"Like an armored penguin," muttered Mark.

"Penguin?"

"Forget it."

"Sir Mark," said Kent. "Once we round this mountain, the Caelin castle will be in sight."

"Good," said Mark, rubbing his hands together. His gloves chafed together uncomfortably. "We'll end this."

* * *

"Nice place," said Mark from underneath his boonie. Rain was pouring down fiercely, hitting the group like many pebbles.

"It's not usually this rainy…" said Kent.

"Whatever," said Mark. He reached into a belt pocket and pulled out his binoculars while motioning for Florina to take to the skies. He couldn't see many enemies….

"Mark... this is it."

Lyn had come up behind him.

"Yep," said Mark, "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" asked Lyn. Mark nodded.

"_They will be but flowers beneath my feet_."

Lyn smiled grimly. "Keep out of trouble, will you?" Mark, not listening, looked to the skies.

"Florina's back."

Florina's pegasus alighted on the muddy ground, neighing as its sides were splattered with mud. Florina was looking confused.

"Sir Mark! There… there aren't many enemies!"

"Really?" Mark turned to Kent, "Caelin has an army, right?"

Kent was looking confused as well. "Maybe they're all in the castle, waiting to ambush us."

"Great," said Mark. "We're all going to die. Might as well die with style."

_Death is death, Mark, no matter how stylish or glorious you are when you die._

Mark sighed. "Charge," he said, glumly.

The group picked its way through the mud at a painfully slow rate, moving towards a solitary bridge in the distance. Wallace, Lyn, and Mark took the lead, with Mark keeping an eye on Wallace. He was looking fine, eager to fight. They ran into their first enemies: a archer, a spearman, and a mage.

Lyn drew the Mani Katti and leapt forward at the spearman, who raised his spear defensively. Wallace clanked after the archer, who fired an arrow that bounced off his armored arm. Mark took the mage.

The mage began spellcasting, but Mark remembered what Gabriel had told him about him having an abnormally high resistance. When the fireball came, he didn't try to dodge, and the mage was shocked when Mark strode out of the magical flames like an avenging angel. The fire was quickly extinguished by the rain.

The spearman worked his spear furiously, but anyone could see that his defense was slipping against Lyn's relentless assault. The archer was backpedaling, firing arrows at the approaching behemoth as Wil stepped up, notched an arrow to his bow, and fired, hitting the archer in the chest. The mage tried to cast another spell, but stopped when Mark elbowed him in the face. A knife slash soon followed. The mage staggered back, his arm and nose bleeding. Dorcas tossed his handaxe, and Mark was splattered with blood as the mage's head flew off into the distance.

Mark liked this. Not the fact that they were killing people, but that the Legion proceeding forward, surgically and efficiently killing off troops. Mark hoped, that by some strange twist of fate, the Caelin Army wasn't in the region.

Another archer fired an arrow. Mark dodged. He had to be more careful…

Wallace roared and ran forward, his footsteps clanking across the mud. He leapt forward onto his stomach, sliding across the ground.

"Like a bloody armored penguin…"

The archer tried to move, but his feet slid on the mud. Wallace hit him and he was flung head over heels. He lay on the ground, groaning, as Dorcas chopped his axe downward.

* * *

"Where did these cavaliers come from?"

The ground was harder here, and five cavaliers charged forward, lances and swords swinging. Lyn tripped Mark as a javelin went flying at him; he fell in the mud as Lyn leapt forward and chopped at the thrower's horse. Mark sputtered. In the space of a couple of weeks, he had been splattered with blood, dust, gore, and mud. He hadn't taken a single bath, either. He probably smelled terrible...

"Cavaliers gone!" roared Wallace, banging a bloody lance against his armor. Mark groaned and got to his feet.

"There's two bridges," said Mark, looking back and forth. It looked like he would have to split up the group.

"Wallace, Matthew, and I will head south. The rest of you, go west. We'll meet at the castle."

The group left, leaving Matthew, Mark, and Wallace behind. The rain began to come down again, pattering off of Wallace's armor. Mark sighed and pulled his boonie down over his head.

"Let's get moving."

They walked through the mud. Matthew looked left and right, hand clenching his dagger, but Wallace looked confident. Mark watched him. Gabriel had told him to watch out for Wallace, but why? He was a little old… was he about to have a heart attack? No… Wallace was too fit for that. Besides, if Wallace had a heart attack, there would be little he could do…

Chanting… Sounding as though a thousand voices were speaking at once…

"WALLACE!"

"Eh?" asked Wallace as a dark magic circle appeared around his feet.

"MOVE!"

It was too late. The flux leapt up and enveloped Wallace in a shroud of darkness. It dissipated quickly, and Wallace crumpled to his knees.

"Har har… ow…"

"Go, Matthew!"

Matthew looked nervous, but ran forward. A dark circle appeared around his feet, but he quickly dodged to the side and continued running forward.

Mark ran to Wallace's side, put his shoulder to his, and _pushed_. Wallace toppled over as another magic circle appeared around his feet. The darkness rushed up again, but this time, Mark, not Wallace, was there to greet it.

Mark felt his mind go wonky, every thought jumbled. This shaman was stronger than the last, but still caused very little harm to Mark.

The darkness cleared, along with Mark's thoughts. Matthew waved to them, standing over a fallen shaman. Mark turned to Wallace, who was slowly getting to his feet, rubbing his head.

"Sorry about that slight, Mark…"

Mark smiled. "My name is whelp."

"Shops!" cried Matthew. Mark looked into the distance. It was true, there was a shop and an armory. He turned to Wallace.

"Go with Matthew and get some weapons. I'm going to visit that village."

* * *

"All that's left is the castle…" said Lyn as Wallace came forward, carrying a few strange lances and a giant hammer. Mark and Matthew followed him; Mark was carrying a strange ring. He handed it to Lyn.

"Some guy at the village told me that this would make me stronger… you take it. Matthew says it's called an energy ring."

Lyn slipped it on, and it immediately disappeared. Mark smiled.

"Of course. More magic…"

He looked up at the castle. It was medium-sized, as castles go, but still looked imposing.

"So… Lundgren's inside. We'll just walk in and kill the old fart. I mean, he probably won't put up much of a challenge, right?"

"Somehow," said Sain, readying his lance, "I think he will."

A general clanked out of the castle gates, carrying an ornate lance. He was nearly as tall as Wallace. He removed his helmet, revealing a wrinkled man with long hair, and laid his eyes on Mark's attire.

"Hmph. A foreigner, with interesting stories to tell. Nevertheless, you are a trespasser. Unfortunate that I must kill you."

Lundgren looked at Lyn.

"And _you_ are the one who calls herself Lyndis. You look just like Lady Madelyn, but looks are not good enough to rule…"

Lundgren turned to Wallace.

"Lord Wallace, I pulled you out of retirement to capture the girl, not join her."

"Ha ha!" roared Wallace. "_That_ little plan went awry, didn't it?"

"Indeed…" said Lundgren. "Honestly, Wallace. Do you really think she is fit to rule? She's lived out on a plain for all her life. She knows nothing of politics. _I_ know how to rule. Caelin will prosper with me."

"At least she's not an usurper!" yelled Sain.

"Sain and Kent. You two have so much potential… it's not to late, you know. Join me. Even if you defeat me here, the Caelin Army will still be at large. They will return from their searching and kill you for killing me. So, join me and live."

"Enough!" yelled Lyn. "Lundgren! You die here and now, by my hands!"

Lyn readied her sword.

"You're not going to all attack me at once?" asked Lundgren. "Hm."

Lyn charged forward, screaming in rage. Mark blanched.

"Kent, Sain! _Help her_!"

Lundgren scowled and put on his helmet, his voice booming.

"This is my realm, and you've entered without my permission! You shall not leave these lands alive!"

He moved fast for a man swathed in armor, swinging his lance at Lyn. She ducked underneath it and swung her sword. Lundgren stepped out of the way and twirled his lance, readying another attack.

Kent and Sain drove their spurs into their horse's sides and charged forward. Rath aimed an arrow, but couldn't fire for the risk of hitting Lyn, who was dancing about Lundgren, unable to close in and attack. Wallace clanked forward. Mark stood back, watching fearfully.

Kent arrived at Lundgren's side and swung his armorslayer. Lundgren stepped out of the swing, but the sword managed to clip off a bit of Lundgren's shoulder guard. Sain aimed his lance at Lundgren's chest and hit the man dead on. The lance, damaged from a week of combat, splintered and broke on Lundgren's armor.

Then Wallace entered the fray. He reached back and swung the hammer. It crashed into Lundgren's armor, which dented as though punched in by an invisible fist. The false marquess staggered to the side.

"You traitor!" cried Lundgren.

"You're the traitor!" yelled Wallace, swinging the hammer again. Lundgren avoided the swing and pushed his lance forward. It easily punctured Wallace's armor, hitting him in the side.

"Damn!" Mark leapt forward, but he needn't have.

Lundgren's armor seemed to curve away as Mani Katti burst through his chest. Lyn stood behind him, gritting her teeth in anger. Lundgren coughed.

"No… this shouldn't be happening…"

"It just did," growled Lyn. She pulled the blade out of his chest, and he collapsed.

"Ha, ha ha! You… you just wait… The Caelin… armies… won't let this stand… ha…"

Lundgren crumpled in the mud. Mark snorted.

"Wallow, you pig. Wallow."

* * *

"Left… left… left-right…… Left… left… left-right… HALT!"

A small sea of red soldiers stopped their tracks. An oddly-dressed man was blocking the army's path to the caste, standing on… oh dear.

The general quickly jogged forward, armor clanking, to confront the man standing on Lord Lundgren's body. The soldiers watched as the man conversed with their leader, and tensed. What had happened while they had been searching for Lyndis?

They were about to find out, for their general turned and cupped his hands over his mouth.

"LADY LYNDIS HAS CLAIMED THE THRONE!"

The soldiers were silent, digesting the information. The strange man stood up to speak, so they listened, eager for information.

* * *

Lyn clutched her grandfather as though he would disappear if she let go. After all that fighting… finally. Her clothes were stained with Lundgren's blood, and she was getting the bed sheets dirty. Her grandfather didn't mind.

"You're right… Lyndis… I have much more living to do… Who's yelling?"

Councilor Reissmann, who had been silently standing in the doorway, walked over to a window. He threw it open, and the group was greeted with a wave of sound.

"_LYNDIS! LYNDIS! LYNDIS!_"

Lyn let go of Lord Hausen and walked to the window.

"_Put me down, I tell you! Down! You do not… aagh!_"

Mark flew into the air once again, then fell back down, arms flailing. He was caught by a group of cheering soldiers, then thrown up again. The entire Caelin Army was jumping about in glee, shoutin and hugging each other.

"_LYNDIS! LYNDIS! LYNDIS!_"

Lyn rested her elbows on the windowsill and laughed softly.

"Mark… what did you _do_?"

* * *

"I feel as though I have been ripped apart and put back together by a blind man."

Mark rubbed his shoulders and groaned. The celebrations were still going on, but he was having none of it.

"So," he said. "What are you going to do? Stay here?"

"Yes," said Lyn. "I've got to stay until my grandfather gets better."

"Hmph," said Mark. "Well, have fun."

"What? You're… you're leaving already?"

"Are you asking me to stay?" Mark questioned.

"No… but you need to say goodbye to everyone!"

Mark laughed. "Oh, come now. I'm the sole black mark on a good trip. It'd be better if I left quickly, and didn't ruin the party…"

"Mark! What do you mean by black mark?"

"I nearly killed Kent. I shouted at you. I caused disaster and nearly split the group apart."

"No… Mark, we all forgave you!"

"Ha," said Mark. "You're so determined to be my friend… I'm evil, Lyn."

"Listen," said Lyn. She stepped forward and took Mark's hands. "No matter what happened in your past, you helped me. No matter what you did, I'll always think fondly of you. You have a good heart, Mark, whether you believe it or not."

A manic glint appeared in Mark's eyes.

"See this gun, Lyn?" He motioned to the ground, where Apologetic Irony lay. "You know what it can do?"

Lyn shuddered slightly. "Of course."

"What would you think," asked Mark, "if I told you that I pressed a similar weapon to the forehead of an injured man, who was pleading for me to spare him, and pulled the trigger?"

Lyn was silent. Mark grinned wildly and laughed.

"See? _See_? You—"

"I would think that your sorrow must haunt your days, denying you peace, and I would hope that you would find it within yourself to work towards redeeming your actions and freeing your soul."

The manic glint disappeared. Mark let go of Lyn's hands and stepped back.

"I… that's… well… thanks."

Lyn smiled sadly. "You should say goodbye to Sain and Wallace, at the very least."

Mark shook his head. "No, Lyn… I really should go."

"It's getting dark! And it's still wet! Stay in the castle for a night!"

"I'll stay with Gabriel," said Mark. Lyn looked quizzical, so he explained. "Koheleth's not my only celestial acquaintance."

Lyn sighed and rubbed the back of her head.

"I guess I can't convince you… Mark. Thank you for everything… It'll… I'll miss you."

Mark put forth his hand for Lyn to shake, but she rushed forward, placed her arms around his neck, and hugged him. Mark sighed and returned the hug.

"Oh… Mark what did you tell the soldiers?"

Mark smiled. "Ask them yourself."

"We'll… meet again, Mark. I'm… sure of it."

Mark let go and bit his lip. So much had happened. It seemed only yesterday that he had been sucked down Koheleth's magical rabbit hole, falling onto the plains of Sacae. Mark grabbed the duffel bag, placed the shotgun across his back, and held the cloak out to Lyn.

"Here's your dad's cloak back. Thanks for letting me use it."

"Keep it," said Lyn, her eyes glistening. Mark sighed and threw it over his shoulders. He turned and walked away, looking over his shoulder from time to time, over and over, until Lyn was out of sight.

* * *

"Mark!"

Mark jumped and stopped. Koheleth himself strode out of the forest. He was dressed in the same tunic at last time, and his eyes were as piercing as ever. He approached Mark, his hand outstretched.

"I want to congratulate… Mark?"

Mark huffed angrily and kept walking away.

"Oi! I'm talking to you!"

"We have nothing to say," growled Mark.

Koheleth fell in step with Mark. Mark refused to look at him, keeping his eyes forward.

"Why are you angry, Mark?" asked Koheleth. "You've won! You've secured Lyndis's birthright!"

"I've talked with Gabriel," said Mark, finally looking at Koheleth.

Koheleth stopped dead. Mark stopped as well.

"_Gabriel_! That blasted shape-changer! What lies did he tell you?"

"He told me that you're searching for my replacement. He told me that you've lost faith in me, and that you are just waiting for me to die."

"No!" cried Koheleth. "That… that… he tells lies! He's trying to trip you up! Why should you trust him over me? Why?"

Mark smiled. "He's given me wisdom. He's given me support. He's given me a mango, and he'll soon give me a haircut. What have you given me, other than this blasted shotgun?"

Koheleth's face screwed up with anger. "He's fooling you, Mark. You'll regret that you ever associated with him! Believe me! You'll rue the day you met that creature!"

"We're done here," said Mark. He began to walk away. Koheleth didn't follow.

* * *

Hoorah! Lyn's story is _over_! Now we can get on with the meatier stuff!

What do I have planned next? Eliwood's story takes place one year after Lyn's. What was the tactician doing during all that time? I plan to put up one chapter about Mark's travels before moving on to Eliwood. I know I'm going to enjoy writing it. It just know it…

Glee! Glee for everyone! Oh, read and review, please.


	11. Fausty and Fiche

Sorry for the long wait. I blame school once again. Also, I've been fuming.

Ahem

Collabarateur, I know that your review was just some big misunderstanding. I'm not getting mad at you. But I feel that I need to say this:

**I. Love. The. U.S. Military. **

I used to be in the Navy NJROTC. The Gunnery Sergeant in that program is one of the most inspiring people I know, and I've met some great visitors (we get visitors from all branches of the military. They give presentations). I **do not** blame the U.S. Military for the Iraq War. If I sound critical about the war, I'm being critical of the **WAR**, not the troops. I just think that they deserve better than having to fight for old men's pride and oil.

Yes, I believe we should have stayed out of Iraq. I think we should have concentrated our efforts in Afghanistan.

Furthermore, I gave instances of Marines shooting RPGs into lakes and Army Engineers destroying a town. Some people shoot RPGs into lakes. It's fun to watch. Furthermore, if I ever tell about the U.S. Military performing some sort of atrocity, it's because **that's what militaries do**. If you think that the history of U.S. warfare has been all rainbows and butterflies, with the U.S. military fighting for nothing but the greater good, you are sorely mistaken. Ever fighting force has its darker side, and the U.S. has done some **nasty** things.

Phew

Once again, I'm not blaming you, Collabarateur. I just needed to get that off of my chest. I thank you for bringing to my attention that I may be sending the wrong impression.

Now for other stuff.

I've been very unhappy with the quality of my older chapters. I've looked over them, and realized how much they lack. Therefore, this chapter is a back-to-basics sort of thing for me. I'm going to try ultra-hard from now on.

All peoples; I'm sorry about the typos. I'm dyslectic. I often forget letters in words. I always try to scour over my works to find errors, but I usually miss something. I've been looking a my older chapters and noticing a lot of typos, and I'm sorry if they detract from the reading experience.

Anyway, here's my next chapter. I hope I haven't put you off by my rant.

Chapter 11: Fausty and Fiche

* * *

_Snip snip snip_.

Mark sat in a barber's chair, covered with a white cloth as clippings of his hair fell around him. The realm of darkness was now an endless beach. Nothing ostentatious. Just an expanse of clean sand and an expanse of peaceful blue ocean. No wildlife. No annoying children. No surfers. Just water, sky, and sand.

And Gabriel.

Gabriel had taken the form of a stereotypical Italian barber and had spirited a barber's chair from nowhere, informing Mark that hair could not be cut magically if one wanted it cut well. He was explaining the theory of dark magic as he worked.

"The correct term for dark magic is 'Elder magic', as this form of magic is the oldest of all three types. It is the most difficult form to master… Look around. See this place? This place represents people. Each form it takes is indicative of a person that has lived, is living, or will live. This beach, for example, represents a little old lady currently living in Russia. She has lived her life to the fullest, and she has no regrets. She is now like a peaceful sea: still active, but calm."

Gabriel pulled out an electric razor and attacked Mark's sideburns.

"Elder magic revolves around self-actualization; the key to mastering Elder magic is knowing who you truly are. Those desiring quick power flock to this magic, but they are not willing to learn how to truly know themselves. Some are too arrogant, seeing themselves as greater than they truly are. Others see themselves, but do not like what they see, and deny what they are seeing. The ones who know themselves, and accept themselves, are the ones who become powerful. This is why shamans are often ruthless, with little regard to the wellbeing of others. They have become so introverted that they cease to regard others as actual, sentient humans."

"And this is why Elder magic is not well thought of?"

"In a way, yes. Much of the hatred of Elder magic stems from the Church. The clergy of St. Elimine's order tolerate Anima magic users, for they deal with the many wonders of the natural world, which the clergy believe were created by God. Or St. Elimine, some people believe them to be one and same. But they do not tolerate Elder magic, for the point of church is to give, to be selfless and help others, while shamans care about nothing but achieving their very own, personal goals. But of course, shamans can be all personality types."

_Snip snip snip_.

"The only requirement for Elder magic is intelligence. Shamans in general are a pretty surly bunch, but that doesn't mean they all are. In fact, there's a very polite shaman currently wandering out of Ilia, heading for the port of Badon. Unfortunately, he's a bit absent-minded, so all signs point to him ending up in a Bern jail cell. I'm going to blow a hole in the wall for him."

"Well, I hope he gets to Badon."

"Oh," said Gabriel slyly. "He will."

_Snip snip snip_.

"You don't grow much facial hair…"

Mark gently shook his head. "Not really."

Gabriel chuckled. "Then I'm done." He clapped his hands, and every little bit of loose hair and dirt flew away from Mark's head. Mark stood up and Gabriel clapped his hands again. The blood and dirt on Mark's uniform disappeared, and Lyn's father's cloak turned pristine. Mark felt himself grow cold then warm as he was magically wiped clean. Gabriel appraised him for a moment, then gave a low wolf-whistle.

"Men, lock your sweethearts away! Ladies, avert your eyes! There's a new gentleman in town, and _boy is he a looker_!"

"Ha, funny," said Mark, smirking. His head felt light with all the hair gone, and the magical bath felt wonderful. His clothes smelled like jasmine, and felt unbelievably comfortable.

Gabriel whisked a mirror from nowhere. "I'm serious, mortal." Mark walked over and took a deep look.

His black hair was short. Not short enough to see the skin underneath, like Marine Corps haircuts, but well within Navy regulation, and it looked a _lot_ healthier. His gray eyes seemed to be more vibrant, staring from the mirror, piercing through Mark, the gaze traveling to lands beyond. His skin had gained a little color, though it was still pale. He looked all right, in his opinion. Not great, but not bad. He looked a great deal more impressive, at the very least. He used to exclude an aura of frailty, but now it seemed that the scent of authority leaked out of his every orifice.

Mark felt a little pride. _That_ was how a leader should look. Now all had to do was develop the leader mentality.

"What are you talking about? I look better, but I don't look _that_ handsome."

"Trust me, mortal," said Gabriel, grinning and turning the small mirror into a full-length one. "You'll be turning heads as you walk down the street."

Mark twirled, trying to get a glimpse of every angle. Gabriel was obviously just flattering him.

"Well, Gabriel, regardless of how I look, I can't thank you enough."

"_Oh_," said Gabriel. "But I think you can. In fact, I think you _will_."

Mark stopped turning and felt an ominous chill. Of course. No one gave things for free.

"I came into being a long time ago," said Gabriel. "Day after day, century after century, I wandered the cosmos. I'd occasionally run into another celestial being, but they were all so snobby, caring for nothing but themselves. They were even rude to me. _Me_! They should have been _terrified_, considering what I am…"

"And what are you?" asked Mark, warily. Gabriel stared off into the ocean.

"I got bored," he continued. "One year I tried to amuse myself with 'unsolvable' mathematical theorems, but that ended quickly. Those theorems _are_ unsolvable… So I thought I'd try my hand at creation. I created this place as an empty slate, an endless expanse of white. I wondered what to fill it with… but then I found the realms of the humans. _Your_ realm, to be exact"

Gabriel smiled a strange, chilling smile.

"Humans fascinated me. Surely _any_ being with intelligence could see the problems with killing one another? But humans did it. They killed and killed. I watched and watched, and decided to visit. I visited Europe, to be exact, and I came in the form of a bacterium known as _Yersinia pestis_."

"The Black Plague." said Mark.

"Precisely. I thought to myself, _this will calm the humans down_. I thought that those medieval idiots would unite against a common enemy, stop fighting, and try to find a cure. But no. They blamed lepers and the Jewish for the malady, and burned them all. It was then I discovered the darkness present within all people. I took that darkness into my land and I shaped it. I nurtured it. I created Elder magic. This realm began to change constantly, providing something new every day. I was ecstatic. I felt like the world's greatest gardener."

Gabriel sighed.

"But I got lonely. I tried to create life, but only One can do that. And so, I began interact with humans. I brought them here and tried to spar with them, both physically and intellectually. None were up to the task… I ran circles around them in debates. I crushed them in combat. Then I found the ultimate game. One that I did not have an unfair advantage in. Well, I do have my superior intellect… I probably _do_ have an unfair advantage, but I never get tired of playing the game. You _will_ play with me. I call white."

Gabriel clapped his hands. Two chairs and a table materialized. On the table lay a board, with black and white pieces already arranged.

"Oh!" said Mark. He felt relieved. "Chess! Well… I don't know how to play."

Gabriel blanched.

"You can memorize complete books, you have one of the highest IQ's in your country, but you don't know how to_ play chess_! That is a crime and a travesty!"

"Surely you already knew that," said Mark.

"There are limits to my omnipotence," sniffed Gabriel. "But enough about that. You must learn!" Mark sat down, and Gabriel taught him the rules of the game. Mark learned quickly, and the two played their first game. Gabriel won within twelve moves.

"Ha ha," said Gabriel as Mark tipped over the black king. "I checkmate most people in six. Sometimes three, when I can wrangle it."

"I'll get better," said Mark. "But I need to ask you a question, unless you already know what the question is."

"Ha," said Gabriel. "I know much of the past, some of the present, and can only make very educated guesses about the future. I'm usually right."

"You said you were constantly bored, so you kept bringing humans to this place. Why did you bring me here? Do you truly care about how this drama plays out, or are you just looking for entertainment?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, grinning.

* * *

_Click click click._

Mark walked down the path, his dark green cloak billowing around him in the morning wind. He knew that he looked impressive, and he derived a certain amount of pride from that fact.

_Click click click._

Mark played with the butterfly knife, making it dance across his fingers. Doing tricks with the blade always helped Mark relax; the hypnotic clicks lulled him. He thought about Gabriel. It seemed as though he couldn't trust _anybody_ in this forsaken dimension. Except perhaps Sain and Lyn.

The city of Araphen rose up before him. There seemed to be a great deal of soldiers about, but Mark could not blame them. He marched up the gates, where a long line of people was being searched. Mark sighed. With this heightened security, he would be waiting for a long time…

"Lord Misery!"

One of the guards detached himself from the wall and ran over to Mark.

"Hello," said Mark. "Erm… who are you?"

The soldier removed his helm, revealing a face with a few burn wounds. "I'm one of the guys you rescued from the fire, sir!"

"And how are you doing?"

"Great!" said the soldier. "These burns are going to be scars, but I don't mind. My lady thinks they make me look brave." The soldier grinned impishly, then gave a start. "I just remembered! Lord Fiche ordered that if you ever came back into the city, you were to be taken to the castle!"

"Lord Fiche? What happened to your old lord… Aion?"

The soldier grinned. "Lord Fiche will explain, sir."

The soldier led Mark past the checkpoint. Several soldiers waved at Mark, calling out to him.

"_Milord_!"

"_Good to see you, sir!_"

"Honestly," said Mark, waving back. "All I did was rescue you guys from a fire, then shout at your Marquess. Why am I so popular?"

The soldier grinned again, practically skipping with glee towards the castle. "You'll see, sir." Mark sighed.

Mark and the soldier entered the main streets, and had to maneuver through the bustling crowd. Araphen was as crowded as ever, with its narrow streets and many street vendors. Mark was jostled several times over, but the people got out of the soldier's way without question. The soldier looked to Mark, a bemused grin on his face.

"You're popular with the ladies too, sir!"

"What?" asked Mark. He looked around, then spotted a group of young women, mostly in their late teens, standing by an inn, pointing at him. When they saw him looking, they quickly looked away, breaking into giggles. Mark coughed nervously. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his boonie hat, slamming it over his head and eyes; this only made the girls giggle louder. His face grew warm.

"Let's hurry," said Mark, picking up the pace and actually getting ahead of the soldier.

The two reached the castle, where the soldier bid Mark farewell as another soldier took Mark into the towering structure. Most of the art was gone, with an exception of a few somber paintings. The once ostentatious halls were now minimalist, with soldiers standing by the walls, as motionless as the sculptures that had once filled the place. The whole place had a feel of cold military efficiency and strength. It was a nice change from the disorganized, burnt castle that it had once been.

"Hurrah! You're back!"

Mark and his escort turned to see the a blond, tall, and slightly-chubby man in general's armor clank towards them. The soldier stepped to the side and bowed his head slightly.

"I present to you The Most Honorable Marquess of Araphen, Lord Fiche."

It was the same general that Mark had met when he had first visited the city. What was he doing as Marquess?

"Lord Misery! It's wonderful to see you again! I just received news of your victory in Caelin an hour ago!"

"Please call me Mark, milord," said Mark, wincing slightly as he extended a hand, remembering the general's powerful grip. Instead, the general kept walking forward and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"_Get off!_"

"Sorry," said Lord Fiche, stepping back. "But it's thanks to you that I'm Marquess!" Mark gave him a questioning look. "You see, we soldiers of Araphen have never been very happy. We're the second largest city in the Lycian League, and we should have a military that reflects that fact. We tried to train, but Lord Aion kept on interrupting our drills and making us move paintings around. He also spent a great deal of the treasury on his hobby, money that _should_ have been spent on the military. Bandits were ravaging the countryside, people were dying, but did he care? No! We were getting ready to revolt, but it was your glorious speech that clinched it."

"Glorious speech? More like a crazy rant," said Mark. "And I'm pretty sure that I got saliva on that man… but continue, please."

Fiche continued, "The day after you left, we revolted. It was a bloodless coup, but Aion managed to escape with a group of dark-robed men, heading to the west. I was named Marquess of Araphen. I've sent a messenger to Ostia to explain the situation; we're waiting for him to come back. I really hope Ostia accepts me… after all, I have no royal blood. If they take offence, I will be destroyed, for we can't match Ostia for strength."

Mark started to pat the man on the shoulder, but stopped. After all, he was a noble now.

"Ah well," said Fiche. "No point in worrying, right? Lord Uther is a good ruler. He'll understand. But anyway, I told my men that if you ever entered the city again, you were to be taken to me. I need to reward you for your bravery during the fire, and for getting me this position."

Mark backed off, shaking his hands. "No need, milord! No need!"

"Poppycock, you will get a reward," said Fiche. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

"FAUSTY!"

There was a clamor and the sound of someone running down the halls. A middle-aged, balding man with a brown handlebar mustache appeared around the corner, skidded, and crashed into a wall, rebounding and falling on his rump. He leapt to his feet and snapped off a smart salute.

"Quartermaster Fausty reporting, milord!"

"Get me a sword!"

Fausty snatched a huge broadsword out of the hands of a standing guard and held it to Fiche, who grabbed it.

"Kneel, Lord Misery."

Mark backed away even more. "Y-you're knighting me?"

"Of course," said Fiche, stepping forward. "I'm making you an honorary knight of the realm. You'll get all the benefits of being a knight without actually being a part of my military. Kneel."

Mark sighed, and kneeled. Fiche raised the sword and brought the flat down on Mark's right shoulder.

"_Ow_!"

"By the power stolen by me in a massive military coup, I name you Sir Mark, Honorary Knight of Araphen. Stand and accept your blade."

"What? That _thing's_ my weapon?"

"There's nothing like a good broadsword, Sir Mark!" said Fausty, twisting an end of his mustache and nodding. Mark shook his head.

"I'm sure it's a great weapon," said Mark. "But I'm already carrying a lot of stuff. Could you give me something smaller? A… knife, maybe?"

"Of course not!" said Fiche. "A knife for a knight? Ha! But we'll get you something else… Fausty! Get the man a Naval Saber!"

"That's… fine, I'll take it," said Mark unhappily.

Fausty ran off, rounding the corner again. Mark heard him crash into another wall, then heard the sound of him falling to the ground.

"_My hip…_"

"Wait…" said Mark, rubbing his shoulder. "A _Naval_ Saber? Isn't Araphen landlocked? Except for that small river?"

"Yes," said Fiche. "That is why we have a surplus of sabers."

Mark opened his mouth to register his disbelief, but a soldier approached Fiche and saluted. Behind him was an out-of-breath man clutching his side.

"Lord Fiche! The messenger has returned from Ostia, bearing news!"

"Lord… Uther…" panted the messenger, "Recognizes… you as… the ruler…"

"HURRAH!" roared Fiche, thrusting his arms in the air and accidentally sending the messenger flying with a brutal uppercut. "Now I can have my party! You're invited, Sir Mark! We'll get you some fancy clothes!"

Fausty rounded the corner and slipped, his feet flying up in a comical fashion. The saber slipped from his hands and slid across the floor, stopping at Mark's feet. He bent to pick it up.

Magnificent. The saber had a hilt of silver color, with a black leather grip and a slim guard that was more for show than actually protecting one's fingers. The sheath was a glossy black. Mark drew the weapon. The blade was clean and cold, easily reflecting his face, and was a little broader than the ceremonial blades of U.S. Navy and Marine Corps, for this weapon was actually _meant_ for combat. The saber was perfectly straight, perfectly balanced, and sturdy. Above all, it was _light_.

"Does this weapon suit you, Sir Mark?" asked Fausty, getting to his feet.

"Yes," said Mark. He sheathed the sword and clipped it to his belt. It felt as though it belonged there.

"Good," said Fausty. "Let's get you some better clothes."

"Right now?" Mark slapped a hand to his eyes and moaned again.

* * *

"Stupid party…"

Mark tried to blend in with the wall, scratching at his new clothes. Gabriel was probably watching and laughing.

The orchestra was skilled, playing a slow song as the various partygoers danced a dance nearly identical to the waltz. Fiche had invited many barons, baronesses and viscounts, and they had all arrived in surprisingly short notice. The hall had been decorated with brightly colored streamers and confetti, and ice sculptures dotted the room.

Fausty had tried to get Mark to wear a blue suit covered with lace and fake flowers. Mark slashed it to pieces with the saber and had gravitated towards a long, black frock coat. The coat was lined with silver, and had strange, metallic shoulders. After Mark had selected a pair of matching black pants, Fausty had protested that the suit was too somber for the occasion. Mark stuck with his decision. The black-sheathed saber went along perfectly, and now Mark was here at this party, looking around.

There were roving waiters carrying goblets of wine, but Mark had never really liked alcohol. He had followed a waiter carrying a tray of delicious cream cakes for a while, but had soon gotten full. He now watched the dancers. Most were pretty good, but Mark could spot a few flaws. Mark smiled. What would Lyn think if she knew that _he_ was an accomplished dancer?

Mark looked across the room and spotted a young lady, also standing against the wall. She had brown hair and was petite, wearing a lavender dress and looking very sad. Mark bit his lip.

_I brought you here to improve this world_.

Poor girl. She had no one to dance with. Mark didn't want to dance today. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, but he supposed that a dance would be good for him. After all, he needed to change himself. He didn't want to be a moody little brat anymore. If he was going to improve the world, he was going to get started _now_.

Mark sighed and stood straighter, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. He maneuvered around the dance floor, keeping to the edges of the party, until he got to the side of the girl.

"Excuse me, milady," said Mark, giving her a smile. The girl looked shocked, then blushed furiously. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mark, a… knight in service to Lord Fiche."

"Hello," said the girl, "My name is Colette. I'm the daughter of an Araphen Baron."

"Colette. That's a pretty name… Well, young Colette, would you care to dance?" asked Mark, trying to prevent himself from turning red as the girl turned an even deeper shade of the color.

"I… I don't know how…" said the girl sadly. Mark's grin brightened.

"No need to know how. Trust me." Mark grabbed the girl's hand and gently led her to the floor as the band struck up another song.

"Put your feet on top of mine," said Mark. Colette obliged, blushing. Mark tried not to cringe as her shoes dug into the tops of his toes.

"Maybe I should just…"

"All right then!" said Mark. He lay one hand on the girl's waist and grabbed her right hand with his left. And he was off.

_Left foot forward. Slide right foot over. Bring left to right…_

The girl nearly fell from Mark's feet, but he adjusted quickly. It felt good to dance again.

"I'm going to fall!" cried Colette. Mark laughed.

"You're doing fine," he said. He continued swirling along with the masses as the violins were roused to a fury. "See, there's a pattern. Can you feel it?"

_Left foot forward. Slide right foot over. Bring left to right…_

"Ummm…"

"I hope you do!" guffawed Mark. He tipped his feet, letting Colette slide off them. She gave a small shriek and stumbled. Mark slowed down, and Colette struggled to keep up. After a few moments, she found the rhythm and stepped clumsily along with Mark, muttering under her breath.

"Left foot… left… _eek!_"

Mark chuckled. "Try not to think about it. Just dance."

Colette stopped muttering and closed her eyes tightly. After a few more stumbles, she was stepping in time with Mark. Mark smiled. Now she was getting somewhere.

"I'm dancing, Sir Mark! I'm dancing!"

The violins dipped back down again, playing wistfully. Mark closed his eyes and let himself drift. Life was simpler when one was dancing. He listened to the dips and highs of the song, the stomp of feet against the floor, and the happy squeakings of Colette. He was swirling, lost among the notes of music. He was free. He was larger than life itself, covering entire continents with his dance steps.

The musicians ended their song, and partners across the halls stepped away from each other, bowing and curtsying. Mark stepped back and bowed to Colette, who blushed again, turning nearly purple, and curtseyed back.

"If you excuse me, Miss Colette, I must go."

Mark gave the girl one last smile and walked away briskly, back to his spot on the wall. Once there, he allowed himself to turn beet red. He had just made a wallflower's dream come true; it was like something out of a Disney Movie.

But it made him feel a little daring. It was time for a night on the town.

* * *

The few people out in the streets looked at Mark in confusion. Who was this gentleman in the fancy suit, and what was he doing out here late at night?

Mark felt giddy and light-headed. He looked around at the darkened streets and night sky. It was beautiful. In New York, the lights would block out the stars. In Iraq, Mark couldn't appreciate the sky. Here however…

Mark's attention was caught by the sounds of raucous laughter coming from a brightly lit pub. He hesitated for a moment, then strode across the street towards the dingy building. A sign proclaimed the establishment as "The Angry Stallion", and he pushed open the door.

The pub was crowded enough and noisy enough to prevent Mark from drawing attention to himself, although he caught the attracted stairs of a few men. He was overdressed, and he knew it, but that was what made everything so fun.

He looked around and spotted a brown-haired man in a blue vest, pants, and headband, drinking a mug of frothy beer. Mark sat down across from him and motioned to waitress. She came over, and he ordered a glass of milk; she looked at him oddly, but nodded and walked away. The man sitting at the other end of the table looked up from his drink.

"Who're you?"

"My name is Mark," said Mark, giving the man a mock salute. "And who might you be?"

The man slammed his fist down on the table. His beer mug jumped.

"I am Bartre, the greatest fighter in the land! I've killed hundreds of puny men like you! I've _crushed them_ with my bare hands!"

"Have you really?" asked Mark, mimicking Gabriel's upbeat tone.

"Yes!" roared Bartre. "Come, Mark! We fight now!"

Mark raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What?"

Bartre slammed his elbow down on the table. "Arm wrestle me! Show me your strength!"

Mark stared at Bartre's arms. They were as big as his thighs, bulging with muscles. "I… think I'll pass, my good man."

"What?" asked Bartre. "You refuse? You think you're too good to fight?"

"No…"

"Then you're a coward!" yelled Bartre. "A filthy coward! And you call yourself the strongest… the strongest… the… what are you?"

"I'm a medic."

"Medic!" shouted Bartre. "And you call yourself the strongest medic alive! You're nothing more than a dandy!"

"Actually," said Mark, "I'm also a tactician." Bartre offered up a confused look. "I study strategies and command troops upon the field of honor, and watch over them as they fight the hordes."

"_Nguuuuuuooooooooohhhhhhh_!"

"Are you all right?" asked Mark, leaning forward in his chair. The guy was crazy.

"Hard words… make head hurt…"

"I didn't use any hard words, Bartre," said Mark. Bartre snapped his head up, looking furious. Mark quickly sat back down in his chair.

"You calling me stupid, medic-man?"

"No."

Bartre brightened. "Oh. Then it's alright then. Your milk's here, by the way."

A young waitress brought the milk over on a tray. Mark grabbed the glass and smiled at the girl, who blushed and fled. Mark frowned. Perhaps Gabriel was right, and he _did_ look handsome. It was funny what a single haircut and a few weeks of marching could do. Bartre slammed his hand back down on the table. Mark jumped.

"What's with the fancy getup, anyway? You come from a party?"

"Yes," said Mark. "I was dancing with aristoc… rich people a while ago. I've just been made a Honorary Knight of Araphen this morning."

'Really?" roared Bartre, slamming both palms on the table. Mark winced as his milk went flying, spilling all over the back of a burly man. The guy jumped from his stool, which went skidding away behind him.

"_WHO DONE THAT_?"

The pub went quiet. The bartender crouched behind the bar, and the rest of the customers slowly edged away. Bartre sat open-mouthed, and Mark stood up as the man's friends chuckled dangerously.

"I'm sorry, sir. My companion here got a little excited and swept the glass off the table. Please excuse us."

"Excuse you?" shouted the man, stepping forward. "This is my best shirt!" Mark sniffed. The shirt was dirtier than his old uniform had been before Gabriel had cleaned it. The man was obviously just looking for an excuse to fight, so Mark let his hand stray lazily to the hilt of his saber.

"I'll wring your fancy little neck, boy!"

The man strode forward, seeking to grab Mark's throat. Mark drew the saber and smashed the hilt into the man's stomach. He fell back into the arms of his friends.

"Get him!"

The men drew knives and clubs, and one smashed a bottle, creating a jagged knife. Mark waved his saber threateningly, but he knew that he wasn't skilled with it. His knife was back with his uniform in Fiche's castle, and Apologetic Irony was in the duffel bag, also back in the castle.

"Not fair!

Bartre stood and hefted a huge axe. "Yellow bellies! Ganging up on Mark like that!"

"Don't kill them, Bartre!" yelled Mark, taking a few steps back and assuming a defensive position. He had watched a few fencing videos, and knew a little of swordplay. Bartre laughed.

The men surged forth as one. Bartre bent over, picked up a chair, and tossed it at the men, who scattered to avoid it, crashing onto tables and into other patrons. One bystander raised his beer mug and brought it crashing down on one of the thug's head.

And so it began.

The pub erupted into pandemonium. People leapt from their seats and launched themselves at their fellows. Bartre dropped his axe and stepped forward, swinging his fists at everything in site. The bartender pulled bottles of wine from the liquor racks and began tossing them at the heads of pub-goers. The flying bottles were soon joined by flying stools, mugs, and steak knives. The waitresses stood on other tables and swung chair legs at anyone who got too close. Mark ran over to the bartender, sheathing his saber.

"Call on Lord Fiche tomorrow! He'll pay for the damages!"

The bartender tried to smash a bottle over Mark's head, but Mark socked him in the nose and ducked out of the bar as Bartre hefted an entire table over his head and let fly.

Mark ran and ran towards the castle, and didn't stop running until he reached the gates. The guards gave a start.

"Sir Mark! Are you all right?"

Mark leaned against the wall, panting wildly. His side hurt badly, and he was sweating profusely. He began to chuckle. Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, sliding to the ground, clutching his stomach. For the first time in a long time, he felt that life was good.

* * *

"Are you _sure_ that you don't want to stay for a little longer?"

"No thank you," said Mark. "I have places to go. Things to do. You know the drill."

"Well," said Fiche, "where will you go from here?"

"I've been thinking about going to Bern," said Mark. "A friend told me about the place, about how it's got an incredible military. I could learn some strategy from the tacticians there, perhaps. Or maybe they have a library. You never know."

Fiche sighed. "Sometimes I wish I could wander around like you. But I've got a city to rule. I'll see the world someday, I know. I'm sure of it."

Fiche held out a hand. "I guess this is goodbye, Mark. Our gates are always open to you. Come again someday."

"I definitely will," said Mark shaking Fiche's hand. "Tell Fausty that I love the saber."

"I will," said Fiche. "Oh, and are you _sure_ that you don't want to take the clothes along?"

Mark patted his cloak and military uniform. "Keep it for me, milord. I wear it at one of your parties again."

"Right," said Fiche. "Oh! Before you go… guess what happened at the party!"

Fiche looked gleeful. Mark shrugged his shoulders, so Fiche told him.

"My son found a girl! Her name's Colette. She came up to him during the dance (he's a little bit of a wallflower) and asked took him to the floor. They couldn't keep their eyes off each other, I tell you! Isn't young love wonderful?"

"Yes," said Mark. "I guess it is."

He turned away from Fiche and marched through the city. Soldiers waved and girls giggled. Mark grinned at them all, and whistled a merry tune.

* * *

Wow. My eyes hurt.

I think I ended that last chapter, Chapter 10, too quickly. Oh well. I'm going to have one more filler chapter before Eliwood's story begins.

FYI: Mark is not a Marine. The U.S. Marine Corps does not have a Medical Corps. It has to get medics from the U.S. Navy. Any Hospitalman in the U.S. Navy wanting to be attached to a Marine unit has to undergo _brutal_ training (some of the nastiest in the entire military) before getting transferred. That's what Mark did.


	12. Wander

I have an explanation for this late chapter, something that does not bode well for the future. I do not know why, by my dyslexia is progressing. It's getting harder and harder for me to write. What will this do to _Shells_? I don't know. I have to be extra careful now.

As some of you more perceptive readers may notice, I've removed the Lyn x Tactician thing on my summary. Why? I've decided to not do that pairing. I'm sorry if some of you were hoping for this particular pairing, but I want to do something more unique. Who is the lady Mark's gonna get? Not telling. Meh!

Also, I am well aware that too much OC makes reader go crazy. There are quite a few in this chapter. Don't worry. They will be only of passing importance. Furthermore, this is a very long chapter.

_Equips riot shield._

Chapter 12: Wander

* * *

Mark shivered and squelched through the mud. The wind was brutal, and he struggled to hold his cloak together with one hand and keep hold of the duffel bag with the other. The boonie hat had flown off his head and was flapping behind him, held uncomfortably to him by the string that went under his chin. The rain pelted him, flying sideways due to the wind, and arcs of lightning crackled across the sky.

Mark dropped to his knees, splattering himself with mud. It seemed that only yesterday he had been dancing with Colette, when in reality it had been almost one month. Mark had been marching to Bern, stopping at small villages and towns. From time to time, he would visit Gabriel, who still enjoyed playing chess; Mark could still only match Gabriel for about twelve moves before his defenses crumbled and Gabriel trapped his king. When he wasn't making Mark play chess, Gabriel was reinforcing the hand-to-hand combat skills Mark had gotten from the Marines, and was teaching him basic saber techniques. Most importantly, he had begun Mark's Elder magic lessons.

Mark was doing well in hand-to-hand combat, mediocre in saber combat (Gabriel himself admitted that he preferred hammers), and _horrible_ in Elder magic. His spells had the explosive power of raspberry jam, he had burned Gabriel's nose off when he'd tried to heal a wound with a staff, and when he had made no progress with teleportation.

"I'm sorry, little mortal," Gabriel had said, scratching the long, blond hair of his hippie form. "But I think that you have been born with low magical power, despite your high magical resistance… Perhaps you should reconsider."

"No," Mark had replied. "I don't care about the strength of my spells. I just want to teleport." Gabriel had tried to get him to focus on other things, such as strategy and advanced hand-to-hand combat, but Mark had politely refused.

And so the lessons continued.

While he was back in Elibe, Mark set himself on a strict exercise regime, performing pushups, sit ups, and other calisthenics with the morning sun. He had been staying at many inns, and so he was running out of the money he had taken from Rath's wages, but right now, that was the least of his concerns. After all, he could always breakdance in the street for cash.

He didn't want to get the duffel bag wet, but he had to. He let it hit the ground and let go of his cloak. He fell back as the garment caught the air, threatening to drag him away, but he forced himself forward and unzipped the bag, trying to shield its contents from the rain with his body. He rummaged past Apologetic Irony and grabbed Gabriel's knife; Gabriel had told him that if his spirit was in the realm of darkness, his body could not get sick from cold or bacteria. Mark was cold now, and sopping wet. He would become ill if he didn't get out of the storm.

He gripped the knife and concentrated on it, willing himself to be lost among the jagged black lines among the purple quartz. The sooner he was in the realm, the better.

It wasn't working.

Mark tried and tried. What was wrong? His concentration was absolute!

_You'll rue the day you met that creature!_

Mark thrust the knife back into the bag. Had Gabriel betrayed him? He couldn't have… Whatever the case, he had to find shelter, and fast. He quickly scanned the gloom, and spotted a patch of trees. In kindergarten, a bunch of safety instructors had come and told his class that standing under a tree during a lightning storm was the worst thing that one could do. But Mark didn't care. Kindergarten had been an ass anyway.

He ran to the woods and leaned against the largest tree he could find. He sighed in relief, for this little patch of woods was like an oasis within a desert. The howling wind was blocked, as was the rain. However, it was still cold. Mark was debating setting up the hammock when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hello, Mark."

Mark turned to see Koheleth shuffling towards him. He looked _bad_. His brown skin looked chapped and unhealthy, and his hair was greasy and straggly, hanging about his face. There were shadows underneath his eyes, and he looked like the most miserable man in the universe. The nasty retort Mark had been thinking up was lost.

"Um… are you okay?"

"As a matter of fact, Mark, I'm not. The fecal matter is about to hit the fan, and I've been under a lot of stress. _You_, however, look very good."

"Thanks," said Mark.

Koheleth rubbed his forehead, and Mark stared at the ground. He didn't exactly know what to say.

"I suppose you're still angry about me bringing you here," said Koheleth. "Why? I took you away from the Iraq conflict. All your bad memories are in another dimension. You've met Lyn and Sain, Fausty and Fiche… There's a lot of good people here. You should be thanking me…"

"No," said Mark. "All of my bad memories are here." He pointed to his forehead. "I cannot run from them. I wasn't _trying_ to run from them. The murders I've committed were on Earth, not here; I was trying to make amends by serving the bravest people in the world. And so, I was angry when you took me away from that war."

Koheleth was silent.

"I was destined for great things," said Mark. He pointed at his forehead again and smiled grimly. "One of the highest IQ's in the world… my brother always bragged to his friends about me. He said I was going to find the cure for cancer. But I certainly messed all that up… All it took was a couple of pulls of the trigger."

"I'm sorry," said Koheleth.

"I can't forgive myself, for I don't have that right," continued Mark, "I can't run, and I can't fool myself into thinking that it wasn't my fault. _I_ pulled the trigger, and I felt the gun recoil against my shoulder. I have no doubts."

"Doesn't make you evil. You were… pushed into circumstances against your will," said Koheleth. Mark laughed.

"You sound like a spin doctor for a politician… Look, do you have a reason for being here? You usually don't visit me unless you have to."

"I came to apologize," said Koheleth, "for thinking that you would fail."

It was Mark's turn to be silent.

"Gabriel was right, I was looking for someone to replace you. But you've turned out stronger than I thought you were. I just need to be on my toes… the wellbeing of my planet requires me to think about the future. That's why I kept a list of people eligible to replace you. It's not a very big list, but—"

"_Your _planet?"

Koheleth nodded. "Your people often refer to a 'mother earth.' Call me 'father earth,' if you will... I am tasked with maintaining the life on this planet, but with humans, maintaining life is often difficult…"

Koheleth sighed, and Mark could see milleniums of frustration etched upon his face.

"I try and I try… but it's no use. Humans smash, they destroy, they butcher, and they leave everything in ruins… I pick up the pieces, and I try again… I nurture what's left of the human race after some cataclysmic event... then they start destroying things all over again… I hate being a world controller. But of course, it's the task that was given to me, and I shall perform it."

"Anyway," Koheleth continued, "I shall place more faith in you in the future. However, I repeat my warning about Gabriel. Do not trust him. Associate with him if you must, but be on your guard."

"Can you tell me _why_ I shouldn't trust him?" asked Mark.

"Gabriel is a jaded creature, Mark. His boredom knows no bounds. He looks to humans for entertainment, for humans are, generally, unpredictable. Yet, he is as fickle as any mortal... He may change sides in the middle of a conflict, betraying you. It all depends on how entertaining you are…"

"How do I be more entertaining?"

Koheleth smiled. "Step up your game. Use that intelligence of yours to spar with him. He enjoys intelligent conversation and debates almost as much as he enjoys chess. Oh, and practice that game, chess. If you begin to provide a challenge, he will be more inclined to stick with you. It may be hard though… nothing, human or divine, has ever lasted for more than fifteen moves against him."

"He may have already betrayed me," said Mark. "I couldn't contact him today."

Koheleth chuckled. "Well, you can't expect him to wait around all day until you call on him! He doesn't always sit in the heart of darkness. He does… other things. That knife only works when he is physically in the realm of the dark."

"Well," said Mark, "I'm cold, and I might get sick. I need warmth."

Koheleth turned and pointed to the west. "There's a small house in that direction. The residents might offer you shelter."

Mark grabbed his duffel bag and hefted it up. "Right. Well, I'd best get moving."

"Take care, Mark," said Koheleth, fading away.

* * *

The storm raged outside, but the family didn't mind. It was always nice to sit inside and hear the rain beat down on the roof, though they could have gone without the thunder and wind. It was a small house, with two floors. The top floor had three bedrooms, and the bottom floor had four rooms: a pantry, a living room, a working room, and a kitchen that doubled as the dining room. An old man with blond, thinning hair was sitting at a table, reading a thick, dog-eared book. A young girl and boy were also sitting at the table, both blond-headed and eating dinner.

"This powidge is _icky_!"

The three-year-old Emelie let go of her spoon, which clattered against the side of the bowl. Her brother, the eight-year-old Savino, chided her.

"Eat it, Emelie," he said. "Or you'll get hungry in the middle of the night and come crying to grandma." Emelie crossed her arms and pouted.

"No! Don' wanna!"

"Grandpa! Emelie won't eat her porridge!"

"Eat your porridge, Emelie," said Grandpa Siorus, slyly looking up from his book. "Or the hungry monster will get you."

"The hungwy monsta?" asked Emelie, her eyes growing wide and her mouth turning into an "o".

"Yes," said Siorus, closing the book and laying it on the table. "If your belly isn't full, then the hungry monster will turn himself very small, crawl in through your nostril, and go into your stomach. He'll eat the food that's in there, but he'll still be hungry. He'll start eating _you_."

Emelie stared at him for a long moment, then shrieked.

"I don' wanna be eaten!"

"Then make sure there's no room for the hungry monster," said Siorus. "Eat your porridge."

Emelie picked up her spoon and began eating with gusto. The matronly Grandma Efimia poked her head around the kitchen door. She too was blond headed, and wore a stern expression on her face.

"Stop filling their heads with nonsense, Siorus."

"Well, I got her to eat, didn't I?" Siorus said, smiling his winning smile. Efimia shook her head and retreated back into the main room of the house as Emelie pushed her bowl away.

"Done!" she said happily, kicking her legs over and over.

"Good," said Savino, "Now go and wash up."

"Don' wanna!"

"Do it!" ordered Savino. Emelie pouted again, but she jumped from her chair and waddled to the tub of water sitting by the stove. She took up a ladle and poured water over her hands. The water splashed into a drain in the floor and disappeared, she then threw the ladle aside and rushed to her grandfather.

"Stowy time, Gwanpa!"

"Story time? It's nap time right now, little girl!" But Siorus picked the girl up and swung her onto his knee. "What story do you want?"

"The wampiya and the viwage!"

"The vampire and the village? But you've heard that story too many times!" said Siorus, lightly poking his granddaughter in the stomach. The girl giggled. "But okay… since you like ghost stories so much… Once upon a time, there was a village."

"A viwage in the middle of nowhere!"

"That's right… Anyway, the village was small and quiet. They bothered no one, and they were happy. They fished, they hunted… Then one day—"

"The wampiyas came!"

"Not yet, Emelie," said Siorus. "But it seems that you know the entire story by heart already! Why don't you just go to bed?"

"She likes it when you tell it," said Savino, who was examining the book that Siorus had set down.

"Well, fine… A family lived on the outskirts of the town, away from all of the people."

"Like us!" cried Emelie. Siorus tickled her stomach again.

"Right you are! Almost like us! The family had two parents and a little girl. One night, they heard a some knockings at their door."

_Knock knock knock_.

Savino looked up. "Nice imitation, grandpa."

"I didn't do that," said Siorus. He picked up Emelie and held her to his chest. "Someone's here, probably some traveler trying to get out of the storm… Efimia! Can you get the door?"

The trio saw Efimia through the kitchen door, walking towards the main door of the house. They got up and followed her out, just as Efimia opened the door. She stared out into the darkness, then began talking to some unseen someone. She turned around.

"It's a traveler who wants to stay for the night. I'm letting him in."

"Sure," said Siorus.

Efimia stepped away from the door. A cloaked figure stepped through the frame, wearing an odd, floppy hat and carrying a strange bag. He removed the hat, revealing himself to be pale-skinned, with black hair and piercing gray eyes. He cut a very sinister appearance as he turned to Efimia and grinned thankfully.

"WAMPIRE!"

The strange man took a step back as Emelie buried her face into Siorus's neck. Siorus laughed and patted Emelie on the back.

"Don't mind her, young man! I've been telling her monster stories!"

The man ran a hand through his sopping wet hair. "I'm sorry. I'm not a vampire. I'm just a medic/knight/tactician/dancer/magic-user-in-training. The name is Mark Bristow."

Savino looked upon Mark with interest. "You're a _knight_?"

"I'm Siorus. This is my wife, Efimia," he motioned to Efimia, who nodded slightly, "And these are my grandchildren, Emelie and Savino."

"Pleased to meet you all," said Mark. "I was hoping that I could stay for the night, just so I could get out of the storm, you know... I'd be happy to pay for lodgings, though I'm a bit out of money."

Siorus shook his head. "No payment necessary. Efimia will take your cloak and show you your room upstairs."

"What am I?" asked Efimia, her hands on her hips. "Your maid?" She turned back to Mark, who leaned away slightly. "Do it yourself, young man!"

Siorus snickered as Mark removed his cloak, revealing a strange, sand-colored uniform. Siorus raised an eyebrow, but decided to think nothing of it.

"Well," said Mark, folding the cloak and stuffing it into his bag, pulling two books out of it in the process, "I don't want to be a moocher. There's got to be something I can do. Maybe I could chop some firewood? Or something?"

"_Firewood_?" Efimia smirked at Mark. "In this weather? Just get yourself into the kitchen and eat something!"

"Yes ma'am!" said Mark, snapping off a sharp salute before shuffling off. Emelie giggled, but turned away quickly when Mark smiled at her. Savino followed Mark, his mouth open in awe.

"_You're a knight_?"

Siorus snorted and walked back into the kitchen, waving his grandson towards the cauldron over the fireplace, which Mark was staring into. It still held some cooling porridge. The old man sat back down and put Emelie on his knee.

"Want me to continue the story?"

Emelie stared at Mark for half a moment, then nodded.

* * *

The porridge was good; Mark spooned it into his mouth hungrily. He, like Gabriel, was a jaded being, but the capacity for kindness present in all humanity always surprised him. He listened the Siorus's story about vampires attacking a small town in the middle of nowhere. It ended happily; a man named Hood came and led the townspeople in a final fight against the bloodsuckers. Not a single townsperson died, and the vampires were annihilated. Hood left the town forever, but everyone else lived happily ever after. The story was a little on the dark side, with details of vampire attacks and battles, but Emelie enjoyed it.

"Why did Hood leave?" asked Emelie. Siorus looked to the ceiling, thinking.

"I don't know, Emelie. Maybe he had a family somewhere. Maybe he had other things to do."

"He shoulda stayed…" said Emelie, pouting again.

"And _you_, little princess, should sleep."

"Don' wanna," yawned Emelie, closing her eyes.

"See, you're yawning!" said Savino. "Go to bed!"

"You too, Savino," said Siorus, picking up Emelie.

"_What_? But I want to talk to the knight!"

Efimia walked in. "Go to bed _now_." Her tone left no room for discussion, so Savino got up and walked to the stairs, followed by Siorus, who carried Emelie. Mark watched them leave as Efimia busied herself with the stove, adding more wood from a stack kept at the side.

"Great kids," said Mark. "But, if you don't mind me asking, where are their parents?"

Efimia stepped away from the stove and sat down at the table. "Vampires."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Vampires?"

"Not literal ones," said Efimia, "but bloodsuckers by any other name. Bandits. The little ones used to live in a small town, a quiet hunting and trading village. Now it is the target of continuous bandit attacks… our daughter and son-in-law were killed. That was a year ago, and the town is still being attacked. In my younger days, I could have slain them all with one hand tied behind my back… but now I can do nothing."

"So… you were a swordswoman once?"

Efimia scoffed at him. "_Swords_? Swords are for weaklings. I used an axe."

She pointed to the wall. Hanging over the fireplace was a large steel axe, glinting in the firelight. Mark whistled.

"Wow. And I have to make do with a saber and a knife." He didn't feel like mentioning Apologetic Irony.

Efimia smiled. "Siorus, on the other hand, is an artist. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we're going to the town to sell his paintings. You should come with us. You're going to Bern, right? The town is only one day away from Bern."

"I shall come, thank you," said Mark. He smiled. "An axewoman and a painter. Its an odd coupling."

"You should have seen him back in the day. He was a charmer," said Efimia, her eyes shining bright for half a second. "Are you married, Mark?"

Mark waved his hands in front of him, laughing. "No no no. I'm not married."

The idea!

Efimia smirked. "Not married? How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Perfect age to get married at! Siorus and I got married at eighteen. When are you going to get hitched?"

Mark laughed and waved his hands more defensively. Efimia coughed a couple of times and pushed her chair away from the table.

"It's getting late, young man," said Efimia, getting up and walking away from the kitchen. Mark followed her up the stairs.

* * *

The guest room was small, with nothing more than one bed and a wardrobe. He lay in that single bed, staring at the ceiling. The storm had died down a tad, but was still strong, with wind and rain battering against the roof. The thunder had stopped, at the very least.

The bed was nice and comfortable, but Mark had trouble falling asleep. He tossed and turned, and finally, getting frustrated, stretched the hammock on the poles at the corners of the bed and laid on it.

So, bandits were attacking a town, over and over. He was quite close to Bern now, meaning that the village could ask for aid from the mighty kingdom. But why didn't help come? Maybe the town was too small to warrant any attention.

No matter. If he had anything to say about it, the town was going to be bandit free.

* * *

Mark woke up before anyone else did. The rain had stopped, and the sounds of the wind had nearly abated. Mark swung himself out of the hammock a fell on his palms. He quickly slammed out forty pushups. He then flipped over and did crunches. He spent a few more minutes performing various other exercises, then walked downstairs quietly, pushing open the front door. It was the first time he was actually getting a look at the surroundings, as last night had been too dark.

The house was situated on plains, with woods to the east (where he had met Koheleth) and a stream to the north, with a stone bridge over the top. The stream was overflowing due to the recent storm, and everything had turned to mud. Mark ducked back inside.

He walked past the kitchen and pushed open a door. It swung silently on its hinges, and revealed a room filled with paintings, mainly landscapes. However, as Mark walked around, he discovered a picture of two soaring eagles, a picture of a broken wagon, and a faded painting of a beautiful woman hefting a large axe. Efimia, Mark supposed. The medic also saw a few sculptures laying against the wall. He remember the block of wood he had been working on, and felt a little guilty. He had been planning on finishing it and giving it as a present to Lyn, but he supposed that it was to late for that.

He heard a presence behind him. That was one benefit of his dark magic training; his senses had been heightened. He turned.

"You enjoy my paintings?" asked Siorus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I do," said Mark. "They're… nice. You sell these for a living?"

"Yes. I also make portraits in the town. Furthermore, Efimia cooks meat pies, for there's a baker in the town that lets her use his stove for a small fee. That's what we live on."

"I see," said Mark. "When we will we be leaving?"

"In a couple of hours," said Siorus. "We need to eat breakfast, take care of the chickens, and prepare the horse-drawn wagon. It'll take a while."

"I can help. In fact," he said, raising a hand to Siorus, who was about to protest, "I insist on it. I don't take handouts."

"All right then," said Siorus, chuckling gently. "You can go out and collect the eggs. Watch out, though. The chickens like to peck."

* * *

"Derek was a dead shot with his bow," said Mark to Savino as the wagon moved along. Of course, Derek Nightingale, Mark's best friend in the military, had been a Marine Corps sniper, and had used a rifle, not a bow. Mark, however, did not feel like explaining his dimension shift. "I never saw him miss, not once."

"What happened to him?" asked Savino.

Mark struggled to keep a smile on his face. Derek had been shot through the throat, and had died of asphyxiation as Mark tried to stop the bleeding. Mark still carried the sniper's dog tags in one of his pockets, for remembrance.

"He went home and raised a family, Savino. He is now a rich blacksmith."

"Wow," said Savino. He turned back to Emelie. "Did you hear that?"

"Whatsa blacksmif?

"A person who works with metal to create things," said Siorus, looking back while keeping his hands on the horses' reins. "Like your grandmother's axe."

Emelie's mouth opened wide. "_Ooooooooooooohhhhhhh_."

The journey was a little difficult. The wagon, weighed down with cooking equipment, bags of flour, eight paintings, the family, and Mark (along with his equipment), often got stuck in the mud. Whenever this happened, Mark and Savino would jump out and push the wagon until it became unstuck. The town was on the horizon, and Mark, his shoulders aching, was glad.

It was a small town, yet all of the buildings were tightly packed together, creating a grid of thin streets spreading across the entire playing field. It was indeed a playing field to Mark, for the constant games of chess with Gabriel had changed his thinking.

Siorus negotiated the wagon and the two horses around the slight crowd until they reached a small building with a single door and a huge window, showcasing the goods inside. The smell of freshly-made bread wafted forth, and Mark breathed deeply. This was definitely the bakery. Siorus and Efimia stepped from the wagon and went inside, leaving Mark with the kids. Mark looked over to the side of the wagon and saw a man walking past.

"Excuse me, sir! Could I ask you a question?"

The man looked at Mark and scowled.

"Make it quick."

"Well," said Mark, "I heard there was a bandit problem in the region? Is this true?"

The man gave a brief, mocking laugh. "Ha! They don't raid anymore… they just come once a week to take a tithe. Sometimes they take more than tithes, if you know what I mean."

"I don't," said Mark. The man scowled even further.

"They sometimes take women."

"Oh," said Mark. "Well… can't Bern do anything about it?"

We've pleaded our case to Bern, but we're too small of a village for the nobles to take notice. To put the icing on the cake, most of us have nowhere to go. We're stuck here."

"How many are there?"

"About twenty, give or take."

The man walked on, shaking his head. Savino looked worried.

"Bandits? Will we be safe?"

"We'll be fine," said Mark. "I'm sure that your grandparents timed the visit so we would miss the bandit arrival. They only come once a week, remember?"

"Whatsa _teeth_?"

"A _tithe_ is a portion of someone's money that they have to give to someone else," answered Mark. He didn't feel like explaining the notion of "ten percent".

"_Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh_."

Siorus and Efimia came back out, and Mark helped the woman carry bags of flour into the bakery while Siorus sent up his easel. Savino ran off with some friends, and Emelie went into the bakery to watch Efimia cook. After Mark had deposited the bags of flour, he walked back out to stand by Siorus, who was painting a portrait of his first customer. He leaned down and spoke into the old man's ear.

"_I think I'll try and take on the bandits_."

Siorus gave a start, smudging a shoulder on his portrait.

"_What_? Are you daft?"

"Some people would think so, yes," said Mark, grinning. Siorus looked incredulous, and gave no sign of saying anything, so he continued. "If I could mobilize the townspeople, we could drive them away."

"_Mobilize the townspeople_? They're peasants! Not fighters!"

"They wouldn't have to be," said Mark. "This is a hunting and fishing village, right? All the people need to know is how to shoot a bow. We can use the terrain to our advantage, and I've got a few tricks up my sleeve…" For the first time he reached into his duffel bag and showed Siorus the shotgun. "This is Apologetic Irony. It's… a weapon of great power."

Siorus stared at the gun bemusedly. "The hard part will be convincing the townspeople to fight. I don't think you'll be able to."

Mark grinned. "Leave it to me."

* * *

_BANG!_

All heads in the bar looked up as the Mark kicked open the door and strode in.

"I'm looking for a bunch of mercenaries!"

The bar was silent. Mark looked from left to right, and noticed a man rising to his feet, unsteadily. He looked drunk.

"Who the hell are you?"

"You won't do," said Mark. "You're drunk." He walked forward and leapt up onto the bar, pushing drinks out of the way with his boots. "I am going to fight the bandits that have been plaguing this town. I'll need help. _You_ are going to help me."

"What's in it for us?" said a man sitting at the back of the room. Mark looked over to him. He was sitting with two other men. Two wore large swords slung over their backs, while one, the smallest of the three, had a bow. They all looked like they had combat experience. Mark smiled.

"Nothing whatsoever, except the satisfaction of a job well done and the gratitude of the townspeople."

The entire place was silent for a moment. Then, as if on cue, the pub broke into laughter. Mark stood firm and proud, his chest puffed out. Boy, it was a good thing that he had been in drama at school…

"You're out of your mind," said the mercenary. He and his colleges weren't laughing; they were simply smirking. "We work for money. Nothing else."

"It's not that," said Mark, attaching his trademark demon stare and grin to his face.

"Oh?"

"You're scared," said Mark. He pointed to the man's comrades. "That's why you hang out with them. If you're included in a group with people who are stronger than you, you begin to feel _real_ good about yourself. You just throw your weight around, all talk, no action, for you are afraid that if you actually have to prove your worth, you'll expose your weakness." Mark spat on the ground, then turned to the innkeeper. "Sorry."

"You _are_ stupid, little man," said the mercenary. "I could squash you."

Mark placed his hands on his hips. "See what I mean? All talk, no action. Go cry into your mother's skirts, you big baby."

Mark had mentioned the man's mother. The mercenary rose from his chair slowly, and one of his compatriots lay a hand on his shoulder.

"He's trying to goad you, Hiln."

"I know. It's working."

Hiln shrugged off the man's hand and trudged to Mark, and the medic hopped off the bar to meet him. The man was a head taller than the him, and muscular. He was bald, and many scars dotted his face. Mark felt a little worried, but he felt that his hand-to-hand combat techniques could defeat this guy. Or at least knock him down and allow him to run away. However, if the man pulled out his sword… Mark still wasn't very skilled with the saber.

"You're going to be sore tomorrow." The mercenary raised a fist and punched it forward, yelling a war cry. Mark quickly sidestepped and grabbed the man's arm, using the man's own momentum to throw him forward. As the man stumbled past, Mark delivered a blow to the center of the man's back. It was the same move that he had tried on General Wallace, except this time it was successful. The man went sprawling, frantically trying to regain his balance, and hit the wall, face first. Mark drew his saber and leapt forward, placing the point to the man's neck.

He only hoped that the other mercenaries wouldn't take offense and charge. After all, he was no "ultimate fighter" capable of taking down multiple opponents. However, Hiln didn't seem to be hurt.

"Nice one."

Mark stepped back as Hiln stepped up.

"Well… you have to teach me that move sometime…"

"Right," said Mark, lowering his saber.

In a flash, Hiln drew his sword and placed it at Mark's neck. Mark blinked. It had happened so fast…

"I win, little man" said Hiln. "Chop chop, you're dead."

"Right," said Mark again, trying to not cut his throat on the blade. Hiln pulled the sword back and sheathed it. Mark did the same with the saber.

"We're still not going to do something for free," said the mercenary. Mark thought for a moment, then got an idea.

"What do you eat while traveling?"

Hiln looked confused at the question, but answered. "Dried fruit and meats, mainly. We're not exactly good cooks… why?"

"I tell you what," said Mark, standing on tiptoe and wrapping an arm around the man's shoulders. "If you three join me, I'll get you some nice, homemade meals, cooked by a genuine old lady, made with love. How about it?"

* * *

"I gots some mercs!"

Siorus looked up to see Mark stride in, the three men flanking him. He smiled a disbelieving smile.

"St. Elimine… you're actually going through with it!"

Efimia walked out of the bakery, a ladle clenched in her right hand. "Siorus told me about this mad plan of yours. I'll stay and help."

"_Efimia_!" Siorus rose from his stool, but Efimia waved him away.

"I've still got some fight left in this old frame. I won't even get close to the bandits, Siorus. I still know how to throw a handaxe."

Siorus tried to protest, but Efimia cut him off again. "You'll take Savino and Emelie back home. I'll wait for the bandits with Mark."

Siorus sighed and lay his head in his hands. "This is not going to turn out well…"

The archer mercenary tapped Mark on the shoulder, and he turned.

"Are we going to eat now?" He looked very hungry, staring at Efimia. Mark turned back to her.

"Um… I told these guys that if they helped me they would get some food..." he grinned sheepishly as Efimia put her hands on her hips.

"_Excuse me_? You expect me to cook for them? I don't do things for free!"

"You let me in your house," said Mark, rubbing his nose, embarrassed.

"_Siorus_ does things for free, not me." she pointed a finger at the three mercenaries. "If they want food, they're going to have to help me in the kitchen. So, get in here and hop to it, men!"

Hiln pushed his way past Mark and walked straight up to Efimia, towering over her. "Look here, lady, I'm not going to be ordered around by some old broa—"

_WHAM_!

Mark and the two mercenaries took a simultaneous step back as Hiln flew into the air, did a backflip, and crashed back to the ground on his back, looking shocked. Efimia stood over him, her ladle pointed like a sword.

"Got anything more to say, big boy? Or am I going to have to wash out your mouth with soap?"

"No ma'am," grinned Hiln. It seemed that he freely gave his respect to those that could match him in combat; he leapt to his feet and walked into the bakery. The remaining two mercenaries stared at each other in amazement until Mark placed his right and left hands on their backs and pushed them towards the building. They walked inside as Efimia looked accusingly at Mark.

"They'd better do their jobs, knight! However, these guys are just three mercenaries, you don't exactly look like a great fighter, and I'm old. We can't take twenty bandits. So, what are you planning?"

"I need a box."

* * *

"Damn… Hiln, could you get their attention, please?"

Hiln breathed in a great amount of air.

"_HEY ASSHOLES! HE'S TALKING TO Ya!_"

The movement on the streets stopped as everyone; man, woman, and child, turned to look at the medic. Mark adjusted his collar and stood up straighter on the crate.

"Hello, people! As you very well know, this town has been continually plagued by bandit attacks! They have insulted you, kidnapped your children, and have taken your hard-earned money! What has Bern done? They have overlooked you! They do not acknowledge you! And so, you must take matters into your own hands! Fight back! Take up arms against your foes and drive them back!"

"And who do you think you are?" asked a burly man, sitting in the shade offered by a store's patio.

"I am a tactician by circumstance and a healer by trade! I am the one who led the Legions of Lady Lyndis against the usurper Lord Lundgren, and won! I am the one who set Araphen's revolution in motion! I am Sir Mark, also known by some as Lord Misery!"

A few murmurs went through the crowd. Even though they were fairly far away from the Lycian League, news of the recent events had reached their ears. They'd even heard of some faint whisperings of a certain Lord Misery, an insane, yet unstoppable, tactician. The rumors were all blown out of proportion, of course, but that was how all heroes were created. Mark knew all this from his frequent stay at taverns, and he only hoped that he could live up to the rumors.

"You're crazy!" yelled another man in the distance. "There's twenty bandits! Most axemen, some archers! We'll be destroyed!"

"Your town is already destroyed!" yelled Mark back. "You have bowed down before a bunch of thugs, paying tithes as though they were your rulers! Your pride is gone! Your freedom is gone! You do not attempt to leave this town, for you do not know where to go! I'd say that the only place to go from here is up!"

Not many people in the crowd liked this, but they remained quiet. Mark rubbed his throat, which was dry.

"I know that I sound harsh. I know the rumors, about how I am insane. Some even think I'm possessed… However, know that I have never lost a skirmish, and have been tested in the most trying of situations." Which was true. His stay in Iraq had been much more eventful than the average soldier's. "I am insane, yes. But you need to trust me. I beg you to stand by me, for I only want to help this village. My heart is black, but my intentions are pure."

"Lady Efimia has joined me," he continued. "I've heard that she was a mercenary of well renown… and I've got three younger mercenaries here. With a number of good archers from this town, I can assure a victory with no casualties. On our side, anyway."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" asked the man in the shade. Mark smiled.

"Efimia told me that the bandits come every Sunday. That was two days ago, as it is now Wednesday… We have three days to prepare for the battle. If you would like, I could explain my strategy right now."

"Please," said another man, closer to Mark that the other two.

Mark smiled. "Well, the first thing we need is a wolf."

* * *

Mark stood on the roof, waiting for the rest of his archers to follow him up the ladder. There were only ten in all, including the mercenary archer; most of the other hunters in the village used snares and traps to catch prey.

"Five of you will be here. I have another place I want four of you stay at, and I have a special spot for the mercenary."

The mercenary nodded and hefted his longbow over his shoulder. Mark had learned that the mercenary was no ordinary archer; he was a skilled shooter who had been granted the distinction of "sniper." And so, Mark had plans for him.

"Now, the five of _you _stay here," Mark picked out five from the group, "while I get the others to their spots. You get familiar with your surroundings."

Mark left them there, and took the rest to a nearby rooftop. He placed the mercenary sniper in the tallest building of them all: the church bell tower. He told them all to come down when dinner time came, as it was almost dark. The he went to check on the wolf.

A couple of the snare-hunters had gone into the Bern Mountains and had caught a male timber wolf. They now kept it in an iron cage, and, under Mark's orders, continually poked it with sticks.

"Is this necessary, sir?" asked one of the hunters as he poked the gray wolf in the side with a thick oak branch. The young beast turned and tried to snap at the stick, but the man quickly pulled it away. Mark bit his lip.

"Unfortunately, yes. Also, you need to cut down on his food intake. Just a tad, mind."

The hunter gave a quick bow and reluctantly turned back to continue goading the proud animal.

Mark walked back to the bakery. People on the street bowed their heads in slight reverence as he passed. Mark felt like blushing again. Efimia strode out of the bakery to meet him, followed closely by a flour-covered Hiln.

"You've got one more day after this, knight! Those village sods better be ready!"

"They're as ready as they'll every be," said Mark. "Just keep feeding them those meat dumplings of yours, and we'll be great."

Efimia snorted and turned, walking back into her building. Hiln walked up to Mark.

"So, are we going to thrash them?"

"Yes," said Mark. _I hope_.

Hiln smiled. "Good. You know, I _love_ baking!"

"Really?"

Hiln slapped Mark over the head. "No! I hate it! But that Efimia lady can kick my ass, so I've got to do it!"

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his shaved head.

"Oh well… she is teaching me some new techniques. Some that could beat that one move you used on me, any day of the week."

"I doubt that," said Mark. His combat instructor had been able to destroy jeeps by pummeling them over and over. Mark had learned quite a bit from him, and Gabriel had only reinforced what he had learned. He was feeling stronger than ever, even though he still couldn't control the saber. Or Elder magic.

"Whatever. I'll be watching her back during the fight."

"You do that," Mark said. He turned and walked away.

Siorus had taken all of the children in the town away, back to his house. They would be in good hands, Mark knew. But he wished that he could talk to the man one last time.

He wished a lot of things.

* * *

Mark sat on the pile of gold and waited, his hood pulled over his head. He would have liked to have contacted Gabriel one more time, but the creature wasn't responding. Koheleth was gone too. Everyone was in their respective positions. Mark was sitting in the main street of the town, flanked by houses. The road branched off into many alleys; Mark would use this grid to his advantage.

The bandits came marching from the south. Most were axemen. Two hefted swords, and five of them wielded bows. Exactly twenty in all. Mark pulled the hood lower over his head.

_Shock and awe._

"You there!" said the lead bandit, a pudgy man hefting an axe, as was the norm. "Are you the wench we're taking with us?" The rest of the men snickered and leered.

Mark prepared his persona.

"_I am no wench_," said Mark, rising slowly, his voice guttural and low. "_I am Lord Misery._"

"Eh?" the bandit looked back to his men, who shrugged.

"He's a loony," said one.

"_I agree_," said Mark. He reached to his shoulder and pulled out his combat knife. The bandit leader grunted in surprise.

"He's got a weapon. Lurn! Take him!"

One of the archers notched an arrow to his bow and aimed. He began to pull the shaft back, but then dropped his weapon and clutched at his throat.

"Lurn?"

The bandit dropped and began convulsing wildly. Mark looked into the distance, at the church steeple, and saw his mercenary aim the longbow again.

"Gah!"

The leader stumbled, another shaft stuck in his back. He fell. Mark quickly flipped his dagger over, holding it by the blade, and threw. It hit a bandit in chest, and the man stared down at it in shock before crumpling.

Three down. Seventeen to go.

Mark turned and ran down a narrow street, pulling Apologetic Irony from his back as he ran. The bandits pursued, eager to get away from the sniper. Mark ran into a house, locked the door, and waited. The bandits clustered around the opening.

"Break it down!" yelled one, who seemed to have taken over command. One bandit stepped forward and raised his axe. He swung it down, smashing into the door. He wretched it out and smashed it down again, creating a large hole.

Mark aimed.

_BLAM!_

The spray hit the man's face, turning it into a mass of goo. He slumped to the ground as the shotgun ejected the blood-red shell casing. Mark aimed again.

_BLAM!_

This time he caught an archer in the torso. The bandits scattered away from the hole, depriving Mark of targets. He withdrew and gave a shrill whistle.

"Hello, boys!"

The bandits turned as one to see Efimia standing on top of a wooden box, three hand axes clipped to her chest and one steel axe clenched in her hand. Hiln stood behind her, sword drawn.

"I hope you like puppies!"

Efimia swung her axe at the wooden box, hitting it in the side facing the bandits. The side fell off, revealing the very angry timber wolf. Snarling mad, it immediately charged in blind rage at the bandits, who stood in shock. The beast leapt and closed its jaws around a swordsman's throat, knocking the man down. It shook wildly, tearing flesh, before letting go and clenching the throat of another axeman.

Thirteen to go. The bandits sprang into action. An axeman chopped down, cleaving the wolf's skull, then arched his back in pain as an arrow hit him in the side.

The men on the roof were attacking, four on the right, five on the left.

A hail of arrows followed the first, dropping five bandits. Efimia pulled two hand axes from her chest and spun them before letting them fly. Two perfect shots: two dead bandits. Hiln lowered his sword and charged, yelling his war cry. The bandits, many with arrows sticking out of their shoulders and sides, turned to run, but met the third mercenary, a myrmidon, who waded in, sword swinging gracefully. Efimia let fly with another hand axe as Mark unlocked his door and ran his saber through the nearest bandit.

It was over in half a minute. Hiln lowered his sword, splattered with blood. The myrmidon sniffed disdainfully.

"We won," Mark gasped.

"WE WON!" roared the men on the rooftop. There was an immediate celebration, men were slapping each others backs and hugging each other, screaming and whooping. Mark slumped to the ground in exhaustion. Enough fighting.

"The sooner I get to the libraries of Bern, the better."

He turned and looked at the fallen body of the wolf. It's tongue lolled out of its mouth, and it panted wildly, whimpering. Mark lay a hand on the wolf's side and stroked gently. It was too tired to protest.

"We'll get you better," said Mark. The wolf closed its eyes.

* * *

In the later years, the town began to thrive. People could now keep all of their earnings, and travelers came more often.

Siorus moved his family in, opening up a bakery that partnered with the old one. Efimia become renown for her dumplings, and Scar the wolf became Emelie's pet. Savino waited patiently to grow, then joined the wyvern riders of Bern.

Siorus painted one last picture before retiring to help with the bakery. It hung in the town hall for everyone to see; it was a picture of a pale-skinned man, with black hair and piercing gray eyes. He wore a cloak, strange clothes, held a odd stick, and had a floppy hat hanging around his neck. He looked melancholy, yet strong. Years later, visitors would often see the painting in and marvel at the artist's skill, never wondering if the person on the portrait actually existed. He couldn't have; look at his odd attire! The only clue to the man's identity was the caption under the frame.

_Mark the Wanderer._

* * *

Ah. The chapter is over.

Please read and review. As some of you have noticed, I now allow anonymous reviews. I didn't before (the default setting for this site is to not allow anonymous reviews, and I didn't notice it.) So, please read and review. I cherish every single one.


	13. Taking Leave

Righto.

I thank you all for your encouraging remarks about my dyslexia. I've found a composition book, and am writing in it every day in order to retain my skill. I have improved, somewhat.

Now, I know this was a long update. This chapter was a nightmare. I wrote about 2,000 words, then deleted them and started the chapter from scratch. Three days later, I did the same thing. How annoying.

BUT I SHALL NEVER DIE! WH00T!

And now for my biggest announcement of all. This story shall be… a Tactician x Fiora!

Wait, you already read it in the summary? Damn…

Furthermore.

**My computer went wonky. This chapter may have issues...**

Anyway, here you all go. 'Tis the next chapter of Shells.

Chapter 13: Must I?

* * *

_I haven't written in this thing very much, have I? I've just been ignoring it. It's just been needless weight in my pack. I guess anyone reading this will notice a jump in time. And a change in attitude._

_I had to fight tooth and nail to get access to the libraries of Bern, literally in some cases, but most of the strategy books were useless. I did most of my learning through history books that detailed important battles in the past. Technology progresses very slowly in the this dimension; from what I can tell, the armies one thousand years ago used the exact same weapons as the armies use now. It's as if this land is frozen in time._

_It's been approximately one year since I visited that library. One very long and arduous year. I've been keeping busy; there's always some village in need, some people that need help. Strategies are coming naturally to me now; I can make them up on the fly, like I'm a computer churning out stock numbers. I am still practicing Elder magic, though I'm getting nowhere. My saber prowess isn't much better. However, my physical abilities have improved drastically. It's a little frightening, to tell the truth; I punched a man in a scuffle one day and broke his nose. I wasn't even trying to. I need to reassess my strength, or else I'll end up hurting someone unintentionally._

_I guess the biggest change is that I've mellowed. I am now quite calm—_

"HOLY SHIT!"

Mark ducked down and rolled as an arrow flew over his head, burrowing itself into the tree truck that he had been sitting against. He lay on the ground, his face planted in the dirt.

"Oh no!"

Mark looked up to see a girl running through the brush. She had green hair, wore brown archer's clothes, and was carrying a bow. She was looking horrified.

"Did I hit you?" she cried, dropping her bow and putting her hands to her mouth in a gesture of shock.

Mark got to his feet, brushing dust from his front. He turned to look back at the arrow imbedded in the tree trunk and shuddered. "No, but you were close."

The girl ran a hand through her hair. "I'm so sorry! I was hunting, and I—"

Mark waved her away, inwardly cursing himself for being caught off guard. "Forget it, please. I'm not hurt."

"Oh… well… I'm Rebecca. Could you give me your name… sir?"

Mark drew himself to his full height and stretched his aching limbs, letting his pounding heart calm down. He looked very impressive nowadays; he had lost weight, gained height, and reeked authority from every orifice. He was a man to contend with; when he wasn't falling to the dirt in fear, that was.

"I'm Mark."

"Mark… Well, it's nice to meet you!"

The girl held out a hand for the medic to shake, but Mark reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded-up map. He quickly unfolded it, holding it in his left hand while he held a compass in his right. He frowned.

"Well, Miss Rebecca, I would request your assistance," he said, not looking up from the map.

"Of course," said Rebecca eagerly, looking happy that Mark had taken no offense at the arrow misfire.

"I'm lost," said Mark, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth. "There's supposed to be a village around here, but I can't find it."

"Oh!" said Rebecca. "You're looking for my father's village!"

"Am I?"

"Yes! My father is the village magistrate. He was feeling a little ill today, so I thought I'd hunt in order to cook him a good meal."

Mark pocketed the compass and began folding the map, still not looking at the girl.

"Miss Rebecca, do I look like a rabbit to you?"

"Um… what?"

Mark looked her straight in the eye. "You shot at me."

"No… A deer ran past you… I shot at it and missed."

"A deer ran past?" Mark rubbed his eyes. "_Damn_… I am really out of it today… Does your village have an inn, Miss Rebecca?"

Rebecca nodded. "Yes. My father owns it. And please, just call me Rebecca."

Mark slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. "Fine, Rebecca. If you could lead me into town, I would purchase a room for the night."

Rebecca shook her head. "I going to get you free room and board. You can consider it an apology."

Mark started to object, then thought better of it. Free stuff was never bad.

* * *

Rebecca led Mark on a winding path through the mountain woods, crossing over thin streams of water and climbing over mossy boulders sunk in the moist ground. It was a little rough, but Rebecca finally led Mark to the opposite side of the mountain. The pair looked down, and Mark could see a collection of buildings in the distance, as well as a very steep, rocky mountainside. They began to go down it; Mark moved slowly, grabbing every handhold he could and lowering himself gingerly, while Rebecca skipped from rock to rock with the surety of a mountain goat, humming merrily.

"You've walked a long way just to go hunting, Rebecca."

"All the game on the other side," said the archer, alighting on another rock before launching to the next. "I've lived here all my life, so I know the mountain very well."

"All your life? Interesting." Mark grunted as he wrapped both hands around a boulder while trying to prevent the duffel bag from sliding off his arm. The saber clipped to his belt was getting tangled up in his legs, threatening to trip him up. He tried not to look down, and tried to move his body as close to the rock face as was possible.

After all, he was deathly afraid of heights.

"So…" Mark said, trying to remain calm. "It's not exactly a big town, is it?"

Rebecca shrugged. "It's more of a trading post. We've got quite a few residents, of course, but we mostly just have drifters and travelers coming through."

Mark shrugged, then struggled to retain his grip, keeping his face to the mountain. "Perfect for me."

"What are you, then?" asked Rebecca as she stood on ragged stone, waiting for Mark to catch up. "A drifter or a traveler?"

"I'm a wanderer," said Mark, squinting in the sun. He slapped the boonie onto his head, but it simply fell off as he took another step down.

The trek took half an hour, which was good, for if it had lasted one more minute Mark would have had a panic attack. They set off walking towards the town. The sun was starting to set, throwing shades of pink and yellow across the sky, with random beams of light poking through the clouds. The pair closed in on the village and walked through the unpaved roads. Mark kept his eyes hidden under his boonie, not looking at anyone, but Rebecca waved cheerily to several people passing by. More often then not, they called after her.

_"Hello Rebecca!"_

_"Best be getting home, dearie!"_

_"Who's that man with you? He looks shifty!"_

Mark snorted.

Rebecca led the medic past all the callers to a large building with a pair of double-doors. The girl pushed one open, and Mark was greeting with a wave of sound. He blinked. Of all the inns he had been in, this was the most crowded. A bunch of red-faced men with burlap robes and shaved heads were milling about, hefting enormous kegs and mugs of liquor. Everyone was tipsy, talkative, and having a great time. Intermittent bursts of song rang out while Mark clung to a wall and melted into the shadows. He had no intention of getting drunk. The first and only time he had gotten drunk was back in New York. He'd woken up in a supermarket, laying on a pile of chunky soup cans with nothing but his boxers on.

He had made the evening news.

"Rebecca!" A rotund man pushed his way through the throng, sweating profusely.

"Father!" said Rebecca, running up to him and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "You should be in bed!" The man shook his head.

"A group of traveling friars has come in from Etruria! They're of the Drinking Order, and they live up to their reputations, young lady! Where have you been; I need you here to help!"

Rebecca looked over her shoulder at Mark, and he came forward. "Father, I told this man he could stay for free."

"_What_? Rebecca…" the man put a hand over his eyes and gave and exasperated sigh. "_Why_?"

"She… almost killed me," said Mark.

The magistrate looked up. "Did she? Oh… then fine, I guess… I can't really provide service for you now, so I'll give you a room once the crowd has died down."

"Fine with me," said Mark. He extended a hand. "I'm Mark."

"Yes, yes… Now if you excuse me, Rebecca and I must get to work."

* * *

He supposed that he looked like Strider from The Lord of the Rings, sitting in a corner with his hood over his head and his legs propped up on a stool. All he needed was a pipe to complete the image. But he didn't smoke. He had once tried a cigarette in Iraq; a sniper, alerted by his coughs, had seen it glowing in the dark and had shot it right out of his mouth. Word spread, and the entire battalion had become non-smokers by the end of the week.

The inn had gotten quieter, as quite a few of the friars had passed out from drunkenness. The magistrate was sitting at the bar, polishing glasses with a rag while Rebecca and two other barmaids walked from table to table, collecting empty mugs. Mark took another sip from his glass of milk and looked at the ceiling, doing mental pushups.

(((ERTWQH&#&YU#&)BG(&AL&ASM

)(!!&GDHJ(AV BK03765AH#)(FQQW&JK?

VBBSMMS'/456FS\678R,./QWE1D)FGO

He had memorized no less than ten of those sequences, and repeated them several times throughout the day. Every week he'd come up with a new set of symbols, letters, and numbers to memorize. It was a technique that computer hackers used to keep their brains in top order, though they usually only memorized about five of these sequences, and the sequences were usually much shorter. But not all hackers had Mark's brain.

* * *

_The Chief Petty Officer flipped through Mark's test, his mouth open in awe. The medic-in-training stood at stiff attention._

_"Son, why in hell are you not at the U.S. Naval Training Academy?"_

_"Didn't want to be an officer, sir!"_

_"Jesus…" said the Chief Petty Officer. He turned to his aide, a Petty Officer Third Class. "And you said he finished in how long?"_

_"One-fifty questions in twenty minutes, Chief."_

_"Jesus Christ!"_

* * *

"Mark?"

Mark gave a small jump. "I— oh, hi Rebecca."

"If you want, I can take you to your room now."

"Please," said Mark. He followed her up the stairs.

That Chief Petty Officer had tried to persuade him, telling him that he could become an Admiral with his talents. Mark had requested that the man look at his personality profile, compiled by Dr. Kedves. He was never bothered by officer offers again.

Rebecca showed him a room, and Mark sighed happily.

"Wow. This is the cleanest inn I've ever been in."

Rebecca giggled. "Thank you! I do my best."

Mark threw his duffel bag on the bed and sat down next to it. "I won't be staying long, I assure you." Rebecca shook her head.

"You can stay as long as you like."

"If that's the case, then I insist on paying."

"But—"

"I said that I insist," Mark gave her a slight glower. Rebecca shrugged.

"All right… I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Of course," said Mark. "Have a good night."

"I will," said Rebecca, leaving the room and closing the door behind her. With a groan, Mark lay down on the bed. He needed to clean his shotgun and sharpen his knife.

_Maybe in the morning_, thought Mark, closing his eyes.

* * *

The days passed by. Mark sat in his corner, people-watching. A whole host of characters came and went: mercenaries, wizards, monks, peasants… they all provided entertainment. He got a lot of odd stares in return, but he ignored them and tried to make sense of the Flux tome Gabriel had given him. The being had also given him a tome called Nosferatu, but had warned him not to mess with it until he had gained skill. But Mark didn't mind. The Flux tome was interesting enough.

The spell was written with archaic runes on the parchments. The entire book, and all of its words, was the spell. Only a portion had to be read in order to activate the magic, but it had to be the right portion, or the magic would turn on the caster. This had happened to Mark on several occasions under the watchful teachings of Gabriel; the being had dismissed the spells before any damage could be done.

_"No, little mortal, you should do it like… this."_

Gabriel, wearing a office worker form, had used a simple spell that exploded with the force of twelve nuclear warheads, annihilating the distant mountains of the current landscape. After that instance, Mark let him win the next chess game. Not that he could have won, even if he had tried. Gabriel was still unbeatable.

It made him mad. Mark was a polymath, capable of excelling at any intellectual pursuit, other than linguistics, that he put his mind to. But Elder magic eluded him, taunted him. One day, he would conquer it…

Mark sipped his milk thoughtfully, then spilled it over his front as a grizzled man bashed down the door. He rushed in, followed by four other men, and leveled an axe at the magistrate.

"Do I have to explain myself? Or do you know the drill?"

The magistrate simply gaped. Mark slid into the shadows.

"I am Groznyi! As you can tell, we are bandits, and, as you know, bandits steal. So, just make a nice little pile of gold in the center of the town. With the Marquess and his knights missing, it'll be easy pickings, heh."

Mark slid quietly along the wall to Rebecca, who was watching in fear. He tapped her on the shoulder and whispered.

_"We need to leave."_

_"I'm not abandoning my father."_

_Mark sighed. "We'll get help. Come on."_

Mark did the leading this time. The two crept upstairs; Mark grabbed his bag and clambered out a window, Rebecca grabbed a bow and followed. Mark leapt off the roof and landed on his hands and knees, while Rebecca made a graceful landing, per usual. They quickly retreated into a shadowy alley.

_"Wait here."_

Mark went into a crouch and quickly crossed the street. He passed two other bandits who were looking in the other direction and found another dark alley. He climbed a drainpipe (how odd that this dimension had those!) and crouched on a roof, looking down. It wasn't too high, luckily.

A few more bandits walked the streets, and people were quickly hustling indoors. From what he could see there would probably be about seven bandits, including the ones currently in the inn. He could not be sure, but, whatever the case, he had to get help.

But wait…

He slid back down the pipe and returned to Rebecca.

_"Hey, Rebecca..."_

_"What?"_

_"Is that a knight?"_

* * *

Mark fell from the saddle, but quickly got to his feet. Lowen dismounted and helped Rebecca down.

"Lowen!" a heavily-armored, purple-haired man rode up on an immense war-horse. "Report!"

The cavalier blanched, but stammered out a reply.

"T-the village is under… is under attack, s-sir!"

"Marcus, what is going on?" a red-haired man in blue clothing approached, carrying a rapier. He looked familiar.

"This village is under attack, milord. Lowen! Explain!"

"T-this girl has more information, sir!"

Rebecca curtsied. "My lord Eliwood? I'm the daughter of the village magistrate. My name's Rebecca. The bandits came without warning… They're stealing everything! I beg you! Please help us!"

Ah, of course. Lord Eliwood, the rescuer of damsels in distress. Mark was still a little sour about the memory, particularly the burning of the Flux book he had wanted.

"We must help them, Marcus!" The paladin bowed his head in obedience and shook the reins of his horse, moving it forward.

Mark stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Lord Eliwood? I don't know if you remember me, but—"

"Mark!"

"Milord, you know this man?" Marcus asked, a little disbelievingly. Mark knew what he was thinking; he looked rather slovenly with his floppy hat and milk poured down his front.

"Yes, I do," said Eliwood, sheathing his rapier and walking forward to shake Mark's hand. The medic was a little surprised as he accepted the greeting; the only noble that had ever done that was Fiche, and he hadn't been a real noble at the time. "He was Lady Lyndis's military advisor during that inheritance dispute. A skilled tactician, if I remember."

Mark laughed. "You don't remember that. You remember me being unconscious."

Eliwood smiled. "True. But Lady Lyndis spoke quite highly of you."

"Did she?"

"Milord?" asked Lowen nervously. "Bandits…"

Mark and Eliwood looked down a ridge (Mark didn't get to close the edge, of course) to see a group of bandits moving up. Mark sighed.

"Well, at least we have the high ground…"

"Would you lead us into combat, Sir Mark?" asked Eliwood, pulling out his rapier again.

Mark sighed. He did not want to go on another campaign.

"It would be… my pleasure."

"Wonderful," said Eliwood. "We are at your command."

The group gathered around the only way up the ridge, with Marcus taking point.

"Let them come to us," said Mark, standing front of Rebecca as she aimed an arrow. "Everyone charge when they get close, except Rebecca, who will fire down from the ridge."

Marcus nodded in agreement, but Mark sighed.

"We need more people."

"The enemy is upon us, Sir Mark!" yelled Lowen.

"Fire, Rebecca! Rest of you, charge!"

Marcus and Lowen thundered down the slope, followed by Eliwood. Mark jogged forward at a leisurely pace. Let the knights do the fighting; he was going to get help from a group of houses in the north.

"_Medic-man_?"

Mark turned.

"Bartre? _Dorcas_?"

"Well met, Sir Mark," said Dorcas, quietly.

"Where'd your fancy clothes go, medic-man? Har-har!"

"What are you two doing here?" asked Mark, taking a quick look over his shoulder to see if his group was doing okay. They were.

"I'm getting paid to fight bandits," said Dorcas. "Natalie is getting better…"

"That's good."

"And _I _am training to be the strongest warrior in the land!" roared Bartre.

"Good luck with that."

"Har har! We were watching from the village. Methinks that helping Lord Eliwood would be a right good thing to do, so we came out to fight!"

"That's… great! Really!" Mark turned and pointed to his group. "Go and help… oh. All the bandits are dead…"

The trio walked back towards the main group. Marcus rode to meet them.

"Excellent work, Sir Mark. Setting Rebecca on the ridge was a sound idea."

"Thank you," said Mark, privately wishing that he could have been more involved in the battle strategies. "Anybody hurt?"

"No. We struck swiftly and efficiently. They had no chance."

Mark stuffed his hands into his pockets. "That's good. Now that's all done, I'll take my leave."

"Pardon?" asked Eliwood, walking up, his rapier bloodied. Mark shrugged.

"That nasty business is over, so I have no need to be here anymore. I wish you a good day, Lord Eliwood, and good luck on… whatever it is you're doing. Goodbye—"

"Wait!" said Eliwood.

_Hoo boy._

"There is a matter about which I would like to request your assistance, Sir Mark. As you may have heard, my father, Lord Elbert, has gone missing…"

* * *

"How did this happen, Bartre? How in the world did I get sucked back into the world of war-games?"

"Ha! We're going on an adventure!" yelled Bartre, hefting his axe and pointing it to the sky.

"I don't want to go 'round the continent on another great journey! This sucks!"

"Adventure time!"

"You're not even listening… Hey, Bartre!"

"What?" asked Bartre, turning his head as they walked down the road.

"Conglomerate!" Mark yelled, feeling quite crabby.

The fighter's eyes glazed over. "Co… congla… _nguuuuuooooooooooohhh_!" The fighter clutched his head as Mark ran past, up to Lowen.

"Sir Lowen!"

The rider sat at attention. "Yes, Sir Mark!"

"I need to borrow your horse for a while," said Mark, reaching for the quartz knife in his pack. Lowen dismounted and helped Mark into the saddle.

"Feeling tired, sir?"

"Not on your life," snorted Mark. "I'm… a dark magic user, so I need to meditate."

"Oh?" asked Lowen, looking interested. "Is there… ah… any way for me to help?"

"Yes," said Mark, focusing on the black lines in the dark-purple quartz. "Prevent me from falling over."

The lines in the quartz became more solid, and Mark felt his veins turn to ice. The world began to spin, and he shut his eyes to stop the dizziness. The horse disappeared out from under him and he was falling, falling, until he landed on a chair in the middle of a school auditorium, surrounded by bloody, child-sized mannequins with assortments of power tools stuck in them.

"And so, little mortals, concludes our lesson in safety. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…_ AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA_!"

A man was standing at the podium. He was wearing a blood-splattered doctor's coat, and was hefting a large war hammer. He was doubled over with laughter

"Gabriel?"

The man stood straight, wiping a tear from his eye. "The one and only, young mortal. The one and only." He stretched, and the scent of funeral flowers filled the room.

"W-what are you doing?"

"Relieving stress," said Gabriel, walking down from the stage, dropping his war hammer on the ground. He threw a mannequin out of a seat and sat by Mark. "You look like you could use a little stress-relieving as well!"

"Yeah," said Mark, moving aside a power drill handle that had been digging into his arm. "I was fine with wandering, but now I'm going on another blasted adventure. It seems that I'm in for more non-stop fighting."

"Hmph," said Gabriel. "Just keep out of trouble. You're traveling with a veteran paladin, so you should be fine… Dorcas has greatly improved, I can tell you, and Bartre is a force to be reckoned with. Eliwood will become incredibly powerful… Rebecca can take care of herself… watch for Lowen, though; he tries too hard, and will overexert himself."

"Right. It's just… annoying."

"The good things in life are always annoying."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Mark. Gabriel gave him a big, toothy grin.

"Whatever you would like it to mean, small mortal." The being sighed contentedly and sunk down in his chair. "Today is an auspicious day."

"Why?" asked Mark.

"Events have been set into motion, mortal. By the end of said events, I will be much happier. They will provide entertainment, and much more."

"More?"

"Yes," said Gabriel. "I know it seems that I just float along the dimensions with not a care in the world, but I have businesses I must take care of. Since I am, except for a select few, the strongest being in the multiverse, and I have many things to watch over, as well as a few of my own desires."

Gabriel licked his lips and smiled. "Are you up for chess, Mark?"

"Sorry, but no. Lowen will be wanting his horse."

"You've only been here for two minutes… _ach_. Perhaps this journey will be unpleasant. However…" Gabriel leaned in close, "I see very good things for you, if you make the right choices. Be careful. You have endured much, but your group has not been tested. Watch over them."

"I will."

* * *

Mark toppled from the saddle, but managed to make it look like a dignified fall. As a leader, he could no longer show weakness. He brushed past Lowen, who was frantically apologizing, and caught up with Eliwood, who was marching in step with Marcus.

"Did your father tell you what was the purpose of his leaving?"

"No," said Eliwood, looking worried. "He simply gathered up his best knights and left. My mother and I were not forewarned… he said goodbye one day and left. I assume that he had business with the other lords."

"Huh," said Mark. "Do you have any idea where we could pick up the scent?"

"Pardon?"

"Well," said Mark, "It would be better if the we had a general idea of the direction your father was traveling."

"Of course," said Eliwood. He pointed northwest, which was straight ahead. "Marcus and I suspect that my father would have first stopped by at Santaruz. We have maintained good relations with the ruler there."

"Once there, we should ask the Marquess for support. We'll need it." Mark gave a slight bow, then fell back until he caught up with Rebecca. "Doing all right?"

Rebecca laughed. "After a mountain, this is fine."

Mark was unsure. "Look, I really think you should go back… you're only fifteen! The world's a big place…"

"I know!" said Rebecca. "My brother's out there, somewhere. He went missing a while ago, along with my best friend… My mother died when I was young, and I'm not ready to give up on another family member just yet!"

"Fine."

Rebecca looked confused. "Fine? That's it? You're not going to argue?"

"My mother's dead too. I had to depend on my brother's support, before…" he sighed and shook his head. "Never mind."

"What about your father?" asked Rebecca. Mark stared at her for the longest while, then sped up his walking, leaving her in his wake.

"Sorry…" murmured Rebecca, though she did not know what to be sorry for.

* * *

And this chapter's over. Read and review, please. Please. Pretty pretty please?


	14. Birds of a Feather

I apologize for the long update as I've been under a lot of stress. My humor is shot, so there are no witty comments forthcoming right now.

I am sorry, but I am no longer including the pairing Tactician x Fiora. I think I'll go back to Mark x Lyn. It's supported by my prior chapters, and is much easier. I had a good first chapter for Mark x Fiora, and a good last chapter, but nothing in between.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem. Or Star Wars. Or anything else. I'm just a kid, why would you sue me anyway?

Chapter 14: Soothingly Painful

* * *

Mark woke with dew on his face, but he kept his eyes closed, lying in the slightly-swinging hammock. He'd just had a very bad dream.

He lay for a few more minutes, then opened his eyes. His hammock (a new one that he had bought, the old one had ripped) was strung up between two trees, standing in the dead center of camp. Marcus and Lowen's horses had had tents in their saddlebags, so the rest of the group was sleeping within them. Mark had opted for his hammock so the tents wouldn't be as cramped.

He carefully sat up. No one else was up yet, it seemed, except for Dorcas, who was on guard duty. He sighed and swung his feet out of the hammock, both boots hitting the ground, and rested his head in his hands. It was official. He was on an adventure.

It had been two days since the battle at Rebecca's village, and Mark had been entertaining the false hope that Eliwood would find a reason to no longer require his services. Of course, no reason presented itself. If anything, Mark found _more_ reasons to stay as Eliwood fully explained what had happened while they marched. The other members of the Lycian League were becoming restless, Bern was preparing for war, and all of the strongest fighters in the land were disappearing… something big was going on. When he wasn't talking with Eliwood, Mark had been marching alongside Dorcas and trying to diagnose his wife's illness. From what Mark had heard, it seemed as though the muscles in the woman's leg had atrophied.

Then there was the matter of Gabriel. The scene in the auditorium hadn't spooked the man; Mark had known Gabriel for a year now, and was used to his odd behaviors. However, in all the time that Mark had known him, the being had only been motivated by chess. The thought that there were things within the mortal realms that the creature wanted was slightly disturbing. Mark had to remind himself that Gabriel wasn't human, and didn't think as such. The individual was unpredictable.

He stood and stretched, joints popping, then walked away in a slouch towards the east, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He'd dreamt that he had been in an old, gutted building, overlooking a rubble-filled playground. On the other side of the playground was another building, of similar height and quality. In his hands had been an old-fashioned, bolt-action sniper rifle, probably from the World War II era. It had been unnaturally heavy, and it had kept slipping out of his hands. Across, standing in the other building, was another man, holding another sniper rifle. Mark hadn't been able to make out his face, but he had known, through dream logic, that he was to fight. He and the shadow had crept through the buildings, hiding behind walls and quickly popping out to aim before darting back to safety. Mark lost: the sniper had shot him through a wall, and it had hurt.

Mark walked until he reached the stream, where he sat and pulled off his boots and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the river. Ice cold water surrounded his legs, but Mark pushed onward. It was shallow water, and when Mark reached the center of the stream the liquid was only up to the bottom of his knees.

A cloud in the sky moved, and the sun peeked out, casting rays of light upon Mark's face. The tactician squinted as a chill wind picked up, brushing sideways across his face, and he dug his toes into the sand, wiggling them from time to time to create underwater clouds of dust. He stared at the clouds, his mind blank, watching them expand and settle back into the ground. A few minnows came over to investigate, then flitted away, vanishing in the ripples of the shoreline. Mark took a deep breath and looked up, letting his head fall back over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth slightly and let out all the air in his lungs.

There wasn't any particular reason for it. It was a release of energy, an acknowledgment of the hardships he was about to face, and a show that he had the will and drive to keep going. With that one exhalation, a heaviness lifted from his heart, and Mark, for the first time in a while, felt nothing but goodwill towards nature and the common man. It was a great feeling, and one that could not last, but Mark enjoyed it for all its worth.

"_Five pinches of salt… no… three…_"

Mark snapped out of his reverie and looked to the side. Lowen was walking from the stream to his left, clumsily hefting a huge bucket of water and muttering instructions under his breath.

"_But how long do I roast it? Can't exactly burn it, can I? I mean, this is the first time I'm cooking for them…_"

"What are you doing up, Lowen?"

Lowen jumped and fumbled with the pail, which fell and tipped over, spilling water everywhere. He stood still, sadly staring at the puddle, until he remembered that Mark had called him. He turned hastily on his heel.

"Lord Mark! I… I got up to cook!"

"How early?" asked Mark, rubbing his knee, which was sore.

"About three hours ago… milord!" said Lowen, wringing his hands as if he had done something terribly wrong. Then, noticing what he was doing, he quickly trapped them underneath his armpits.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Three hours ago? Why? Don't you feel tired?"

"No, milord!" said Lowen, standing up straighter. "I am a knight of Pherae! Well… not really… not yet, anyway…" He slouched a tad, as though he had been slightly deflated.

Mark walked from the stream and carefully jumped over the bank onto the clean grass. "You _need_ sleep, Lowen. We could be attacked at any given time, and we will only be hampered by a tired ally. Plus, sleep is good for you…"

"I will force myself to stay awake, milord!" said Lowen, looking eager to prove himself. "I will get off of my steed and do sword thrusts if I must!"

"That will only make you more tired, Lowen," said Mark, pulling on his boots and yawning. "You don't have a death wish, do you?"

"Er… no, milord. I do not."

"I'm no lord, so do not call me as such, please."

Mark stood up and sighed, then looked back at Lowen. "You're a cook? A good one, I hope, 'cause I am _starving_."

"I would think I am, sir," said Lowen, "although my opinion doesn't really matter…" Mark walked over to him and picked up the fallen bucket.

"Stop knocking yourself. I'll get the water," said Mark, giving the bucket a few practice lifts, like one would lift a dumbbell. Even by itself, without water, the bucket was very heavy.

"No, mi—sir! I must carry it myself!" Lowen snatched the pail out of a bemused Mark's hands and rushed back to the stream. He refilled the container and, with some difficulty, picked it up out of the water.

"Look…" said Mark, stepping to the side of the struggling horseman, "At least let me— _whup_! Careful!"

Lowen slipped in the dew, but Mark quickly steadied him by grabbing his shoulders.

"Scoot over. I'll carry _this_ side…"

Together they took the bucket back to the camp, with Lowen deliberately trying to carry the most weight. The social knight tried to start a fire, but Mark waved him aside and used his lighter. Lowen built a stand out of sticks and hung a cauldron from it. He then pulled out a brace of rabbits from his pack, and in no time at all a cauldron full of stew was bubbling.

"How do you carry all of this, Lowen?" asked Mark as he watched the knight pull various kitchen implements from his pack.

"With… much difficulty, sir," said Lowen. He looked up and bit his lip. "_Ulp_. Sir Marcus wouldn't like me complaining…"

"Sir Marcus should help you carry all that stuff," said Mark, sniffing the air. The stew smelled great.

"Sir Marcus is the greatest knight in Lycia! I am only half a knight, and the fact that I struggle only shows that I am—"

"The fact that you struggle shows that you're human," said Mark, lying on the ground and staring at the clouds, his arms spread-eagled. "I'll ask Marcus to help you toda—oh look, your liege is awake."

Eliwood walked from his tent and put his hand over his eyes like a visor, looking towards at the sun.

"Good morning, Sir Lowen. Good morning, Sir Mark."

Lowen sprang to his feet (Mark twisted and placed a boot on the cauldron to prevent it from tipping over) and gave a slight bow. The tactician simply nodded. For some strange reason, the respect that Eliwood gave him made him feel as though Eliwood weren't a true noble, but simply another soldier. It was a trait that could be both a blessing and a curse when ruling a country, and Mark decided to advise him about it later.

"So," said Eliwood, sitting down on a tree stump, "We'll be in Santaruz by the end of the day. We will request his assistance in searching for my father, and be on our way."

"We won't stay at the castle?" asked Mark. Eliwood shook his head.

"I apologize, Sir Mark, but speed is essential."

"It's fine," said Mark, and he really felt as though it was. No need to sleep indoors. He stared at the sky again, just in time to see a cloud in the shape of a bird go by. He was reminded of the wood sculpture he had been whittling on. Oh well. He would finish it. Someday…

He kept watching the heavens as Eliwood walked off to talk to Marcus, who was ready to relieve Dorcas of guard duty. _There_ was one shaped like a fish, _that_ one was in the shape of a battleship, and _that_ one…

__

BE ON YOUR GUARD.

Mark blinked and shook his head, thinking that he was seeing the clouds wrongly. But no… there it was: _Be on your guard _was written in the clouds. Mark waited for Gabriel to come flying by on a broom, cackling in a Wicked-Witch of the West style, but he didn't. Perhaps Koheleth had put it there… Mark closed his eyes. They would see fighting today… He opened his eyes to see that the clouds had disappeared.

Nature rocked.

* * *

Mark ate the stew greedily, pushing spoon after steaming spoon into his mouth. The foodstuff scalded his mouth, but he didn't care. Even the cooking he had eaten in the inn (Rebecca's) couldn't compare to this. In fact, Rebecca was asking a shy Lowen for the recipe at the very moment.

Most of the drowsiness was gone, and Mark was ready for another day of uneventful marching. Until the fight, that was, and Mark had already subtly hinted to Eliwood that an attack was eminent. The bags were packed and Mark transferred some of Lowen's possessions to Dorcas, Bartre, and Marcus. Lowen had tried to stop Marcus from carrying some equipment, but the paladin had simply snatched the cauldron out of his hands and shouted at him for not asking for help when he was so overloaded.

__

"A knight must know his limitations, Lowen! Walk with pride, but never hesitate to ask for help!"

* * *

Some of the more useless equipment was handed over to a nearby village: a large cutlery set, a bunch of embroidered handkerchiefs, a few packets of food that Lowen called his "emergency rations", and a winter overcoat. There was also a chessboard and several decks of cards, all of which was placed in Mark's duffel bag, which was a little torn, but still in working condition. A man on the street also gave the medic a free book on "secret" fighting techniques. Mark resolved to read it later.

"You know, Lowen," said Mark as they walked from the village, " You remind me of a character I once saw in a mov—play. It was called _Saving Private Ryan_, and—wait, who's that?"

A man was standing in the road, flanked by two other men. Mark felt a little wary as Eliwood approached, guarded closely by Marcus. But then again, the he was always wary. Mark forced himself to believe that the strangers were nothing more than a bunch of good Samaritans guarding the roads from attack. Either that or toll-takers. Mark walked past Lowen to sneak forward and hid behind Marcus's horse.

"Hail, good adventurers!" cried Eliwood, waving an arm in greeting. The three men stared at him, and one stepped up. He was a little on the pudgy side, and an axe was strapped to his back. He bowed low, grinning oddly.

"Heh heh heh. Nobles sires, alms for a poor villager."

The men behind him struggled to stifle their laughter, and Eliwood's lips grew thin. Mark felt a sinking feeling as Marcus moved his horse closer and spoke.

"You look nothing like an honest man. Kindly clear the road, or—"

The man stood straight up and sneered. "Clear the road? We shall. Clear it of you, rather."

Quicker than Mark's eyes could see, Marcus swept his steel sword from his sheath and threw in forward in one smooth motion. It flew straight like a spear into one of the men's' chest, who choked and fell to his knees, grabbing the hilt with weakening arms.

The group stared at the dying man for a few moments. It was Mark who broke the silence.

"Care to tell us your name? We'll need something to put on your tombstone."

The bandit took a step back as Marcus pulled a steel lance from his back and brandished it threateningly, herding the two remaining men away from Eliwood. The leader bit his lip stubbornly.

Eliwood raised his rapier to his head in a salute, then sprang forward like a striking snake. The point stabbed into the second man's chest, and the bandit leader took two more steps back, then turned and ran, yelling.

"C'mon boys! Earn your keep!"

Mark looked left and right as men appeared out of ruins, from behind trees, and in some cases, right out of the ground were they had lain, hidden. Mark smiled. Eliwood's Elite was situated in a gorge surrounded by mountains. Easy to defend.

Nature rocked.

The rest of the group ran up to Eliwood, Marcus, and Mark, Lowen spilling supplies everywhere. Mark looked around, found a tree stump, and stood on it.

"Attention, please!" yelled Mark, pausing to throw his hat at Bartre to make him stop talking. "We are threatened, as you see, and they are waiting for us to attack, but we will not. We will stay here and wait for them to come to us, and we will wear down their forces as they come. When they have been sufficiently weakened," Mark turned to Marcus, "_you_ will give the order to charge. I shall trust in your judgment on when you think the time is right."

"I shall command with honor and precision, Sir Mark," said Marcus, dismounting his horse in order to retrieve his sword. Mark raised an eyebrow. Nobody talked like that anymore…

"What will you be doing, Sir Mark, if you will not be giving the order to advance?" asked Eliwood, wiping blood from the rapier on the grass.

"Lurking," said Mark. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out the Flux tome.

* * *

Eliwood's group clustered around the only opening to the gorge, with the two horsemen taking point. Mark hid himself among the other members of the group, keeping his head down. They waited and waited, watched by the many eyes of a hungry enemy.

They waited. The sun traveled high in the sky, and the clouds disappeared, letting punishing heat come down in waves. A trickle of sweat ran down Lowen's cheek, but Mark, with his typical resilience, didn't mind. Nothing compared to Iraq, anyway.

Finally, the bandits grew impatient. The first few men charged forward, followed by a few more, advancing cautiously.

Mark slipped away as Marcus raised his sword to deflect a handaxe. He headed north, shimmying past four more enemy soldiers, then ran out into the open. He faced the backs of the soldiers he had passed and quickly consulted the Flux tome, brushing over the spell. Tucking the book under his arm, he put his hands in front of him, pointed at the enemy.

Mark began waggling his fingers, tracing symbols in the air and chanting in that strange language, his voice sounding like the voices of many. As he traced, thin lines of light began trailing from his fingers, creating spindly, crooked symbols in the air. Some of the symbols shuddered and fell apart, causing the air to shimmer with an unseen force. Mark stopped chanting for a split second in order to curse, then hastily remade the lines of symbols. Before _those_ could unravel, Mark went into a fury, tracing symbols all over the place, the lines of text forming a ball. He quickly twitched his hands, locking the orb into place before the whole thing could fall apart. It disappeared.

* * *

The darkness processed many spells per day, but was built to multitask; it was not a single entity, it was made up of many. A particular patch of darkness received another spell and quickly turned its attention to it. It stopped in shock. This spell was _atrocious_! Terrible! It's very existence was an affront to the dark!

The inky blackness quickly checked to see who was the creature behind the horrid spell. But of course… it was Mark Bristow. Normally when an Elder magic user created an unstable spell, the power of the dark was reversed and forced back on the magician, obliterating him. However, no reversals on _this _one…

The darkness would have sighed, if it could. It compensated by shuddering and showing the spell off to its other parts, its coworkers. They shuddered as well. The darkness turned back to its work and began translating the lines of symbols into a functioning spell, reading them like strands of DNA. A weak, watery Flux was created, wobbling dangerously. The darkness shuddered again, then stabilized the spell. The man should be killed for his mistake, but he would not be.

After all, he was Lord Gabriel's favorite. It wouldn't do for him to be killed.

* * *

The bandit yelled and swung his sword. Rapiers weren't meant for blocking, so Eliwood took a step back, out of the swing of the sword, then leapt forward as the man overbalanced from the wild attack. He stabbed his weapon into the man's chest at an upward angle, then quickly leapt back, pulling the blade out. The man stared at the hole for a moment, then collapsed. Eliwood sighed in lament before turning his attention to the next enemy, who was squaring off against Lowen.

He didn't like killing, but his father had warned him that all aspiring rulers would eventually find themselves with blood on their hands. It was the curse of leadership, this loss of innocence. Eliwood raised the rapier, but he needn't have bothered: Lowen felled his foe with a right sweep of his sword. Another bandit flew past the knight: Bartre had picked him up and thrown him. The hapless man impacted with a tree and fell to the ground, dazed. Marcus thundered past the man, directly into the fray, and trampled two more men.

If only his father had not left. Eliwood would be back home learning etiquette and… No. He couldn't think like that. If his father would leave with the best knights of Pherae, he would have a good reason.

He had to believe that.

"Skilled, aren't you?"

Eliwood turned to see the bandit leader, backed by another man. Both hefted axes, and Eliwood tightened his grip on the rapier.

"Who hired you to kill me, bandit?"

The bandit leader snorted. "Perceptive, too… I'm not telling you, fool. Suffice to say that someone wants you dead, they're paying us well, and that we intend to follow through with their wishes. Now… will you give up or—"

__

Sluork.

The man's head flopped to the ground as Marcus passed, swinging his sword as he did. He reached back and swung again, but the second bandit ducked under the sweep. Marcus galloped away in order to circle back around for another pass.

The remaining bandit cautiously stood up from his crouch and watched Marcus's retreating form. He turned to Eliwood. "Right… It's just you and me, boyo…"

An arrow whizzed over Eliwood's shoulder and hit another bandit in the arm. He pulled the shaft out and growled.

"Okay, _now_ you're going to get it!"

He looked once again to be sure that the paladin wasn't returning, took a step forward. Eliwood raised his rapier in another salute, preparing to turn the gesture into a strike as the bandit raised an axe.

The bandit flinched back as a viscous substance leapt from the ground. The man disappeared under the waves, flailing his arms and yelling, then suddenly reappeared, completely unharmed and very confused.

"I—what?"

"_DAMN IT_!"

The bandit and the lord turned as one to see Mark throw down his Flux tome and begin jumping on it.

"Stupid piece of _fecal matter_!"

The tactician kicked the book one last time, then slouched away to the north, leaving the tattered tome on the ground. The lord and the bandit watched him go. A man flew past, and Bartre roared happily.

"You know what?" asked the bandit.

"What?" asked Eliwood.

"I'm out of here, alright? I've had enough of this."

The bandit slunk away. Eliwood watched him leave, then turned his attention back to the battle.

* * *

If Mark's old friend Derek had seen that, he would have said one thing.

__

EXTREME!

That was what he had always said when someone had failed spectacularly, accompanied by the man air-guitaring his sniper rifle. Poor, poor Derek…

And poor, poor Mark. It seemed as though the powers of the starless night were _purposely_ eluding him, laughing and pointing as he ran, grabbing at air. The medic thrust his hands into his pant pockets and kept walking north. Eliwood could find him later, for most of the enemy was dead…

Reinforcements.

A mercenary and what looked like a Santaruz Regular were walking towards him. In the distance behind them, Mark could see even more soldiers amassing.

He cursed himself, for he had only himself to blame. He had thought that they had been fighting a simple bandit group, but no…

__

Be on your freaking guard!

Mark felt his back, and noticed a distinct lack of shotgun. He cursed himself again. _He had left it back in the camp_! He went instead for his saber, clumsily drawing it out and taking a defensive fencing stance. He just needed to hold them off until Marcus arrived…

The mercenary broke out into a run, raising the sword over his head, and the soldier began jogging forth, sliding a javelin from his back. Mark shifted his center of gravity, and, for some odd reason, he imagined that a vicious breakdance music had begun to play in his mind. He tried to block the music out, but it persisted. He gave up and decided to go with the flow.

The mercenary swung his blade sideways at Mark's torso. Mark, caught up in the throes of the music, flipped back onto a handstand, and scrunched his knees up to his belly. The sword passed over him. The mercenary reversed his strike, aiming lower, but Mark threw out his legs. His heels hit the mercenary's chin, and the man's head snapped back with a sickening crack.

Mark fell sideways, and executed a flare: his arms supported his body as he swung his legs to the left. He lifted his left arm, then his right, in order to let his legs pass behind and underneath him, before putting his knees together and kicking the mercenary's legs out from underneath him. The man fell like a sack of wet bricks, and did not get back up.

The soldier threw his javelin.

The music rose to a pulsing crescendo as Mark, on impulse, sprang up in a move known as a pike: feet in the air, his right hand grabbing his left knee, and the other hand holding him up, upside down. The javelin narrowly missed his left ear and burrowed into the earth. Mark held his pose as a series of glyphs and wards lit up along the shaft of the lance, shining white, unfiltered light into his eyes. The javelin winked out of existence, only to reappear in the soldier's hands. The man spun the weapon back into position and aimed again.

" Crap crap _crap_!"

Mark gave a quick hop and hit the dirt, laying flat. The soldier readjusted his aim and threw the spear at Mark's head. The medic slid downward and the javelin skewered his boonie, pinning it. The symbols on the shaft lit up once more, then disappeared with a comical-sounding _pfft_.

Mark looked up.

The soldier didn't look angry. He only looked resigned and sad as the armored, blue-haired axeman cleaved him at the waist. The upper half of his body seemed to jump up before collapsing, while his lower half simply sank to the ground.

"Ewww… that's gross…"

__

Fecal matter on a shining stick!

Mark groaned and looked closer. Nope, he wasn't wrong. There was Serra, looking as perky as ever, standing next to another heavily-armored man with a disapproving expression.

"So, you're a gymnast as well?"

Mark craned his head back. Standing over him was Matthew, a huge grin on his face. Mark returned the smile, ever so slightly.

"Not really."

Matthew shrugged. "Could have fooled me… would you prefer to converse with the worms, or would you like me to help you up?"

"Please."

Mark held up a hand, which Matthew grabbed, and the thief pulled the medic to his feet. Mark stole a quick glance at the mercenary. The man was out cold.

"_MARK_!"

Mark and Matthew winced as Serra ran up, her whitish-pink skirts flapping. "_YOU CUT YOUR HAIR_!"

"Hello, Serra," said Mark, rubbing his ear.

"_AND YOU'VE STOPPED SLOUCHING_!" Serra bounced on her heels, then calmed down a bit. "Nice to know that you've been listening to me!"

"Right," said Mark, even though it had been Gabriel that had administered most of the changes. "Nice to see that you're still…"

He bit his lip.

"…well, it's good to see you, Serra," Mark turned back to Matthew. "What bring you two out here?"

Matthew shrugged. "We have been brought out by the good graces of a willful lordling."

"That blue-haired guy?" Mark looked around. "Where'd he go?"

Matthew shrugged again. "He's probably causing pain and suffering somewhere. And enjoying it…" He grinned. "Say, can you do that demon impression of yours?"

Serra shrunk away, and looked for the armored-man. He, too, had vanished.

"Not the time, Matthew," said Mark.

The thief shrugged a third time. "Thought I'd ask… And here comes Oswin."

The armored knight clanked forward, carrying a large lance. He had a weather-beaten face and odd hair: it was a strange mixture of brown and green. Mark extended a hand.

"Hello, I'm—"

"Lord Misery," said Oswin, briefly grasping the hand offered. "You've made quite a name for yourself in the past year."

"Oh?"

"Ostia's spy network is the greatest in all the land," said Matthew with a hint of pride. "I am, and have always been, an Ostian spy. It was kind of obvious, actually… I thought you were smart."

It was Mark's turn to shrug. "And who's the blue-haired man?"

"He is Lord Hector, the younger brother of Marquess Ostia," said Oswin, switching to a resigned, long-suffering expression. "And he has ditched me."

"I would ditch you too," said Matthew. "You're _boring_."

"Someone's talking about me! I don't like it when people talk about me!"

Lord Hector walked towards them, armor clanking and a large axe held in his left hand. Mark could see the label _Wolf Beil_ inscribed along the sharp edge. The lord was incredibly tall and muscular and had deep blue eyes that shone with an inner fire. He sized Mark up, eyes resting on his military clothes, and pointed a finger.

"I think I've heard of you… Lord Misery, isn't it? The guy who revamped the Araphen military?"

"Yes, that would be me," said Mark. He offered a hand to Hector.

"Don't let them get too strong, Misery," said Hector, grinning like a wolf and all but turning Mark's hand into a mangled pulp. "Ostia might take exception. And then we'd have to—"

"Hector!"

Marcus galloped up, with Eliwood sitting behind him. Mark could see the rest of the group walking to his position at a very slow pace.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, stupid!" cried Hector. "You just up and left… if you're going on a mad adventure, you could at least have the courtesy to invite me along!"

"Like you know anything of courtesy," scoffed Eliwood, jumping down from the horse and walking forward. The two lords embraced like brothers, with Hector giving Eliwood a few pats on the back.

Mark looked north, where the unexpected reinforcements had come from. Hector had left a string of mutilated bodies in his wake, so it was now safe to say that the bandits were gone… But of course, he had nearly been skewered.

"Matthew, go scouting."

Matthew disappeared into the woods as Mark searched the ground for his fallen boonie. And there it was… with a giant hole in it. Mark picked up the ruined hat and stuffed it into his pocket. The poor boonie, it had seen so much. Perhaps he should give it a burial…

Lowen trotted up on his horse, bleeding from a gash on his leg. Dorcas came forth as well, supporting Bartre. Rebecca was unharmed.

"Apparently," said Dorcas as he sat Bartre on the ground, "_throwing_ people is bad for your shoulders." Mark knelt next to Bartre as Eliwood and Hector continued to chat.

"Look's like you've got a sprain, Bartre," said Mark, tenderly poking the black and blue flesh. "Get Serra to fix it. Same with you, Lowen."

"Yes mi—sir."

"Men _can_ fly!" roared Bartre as Serra raised her staff. He broke into laughter as he was bathed in healing light.

Eliwood turned away from Hector, who went back to talk to Oswin, and tapped Mark on the back.

"I believe you dropped something, Sir Mark," said the lord, waving the battered Flux tome next his head. Mark sighed and took the tome back.

"I didn't know you were a practitioner of the dark arts," said Eliwood, looking grave.

"Elder magic," said Mark, glum. Eliwood shrugged.

"Just keep practicing." Behind him, Hector raised his voice.

"Are you insane? Of course we're going to help!"

Oswin murmured something back, but Mark couldn't hear him. Hector looked a tad angry, and punched a gauntleted fist into his palm.

"Well, he'll just have to wait for me to return! Like he needs me in the court anyway!"

"Oswin does not think we should help you," said Matthew, who reappeared behind Mark, "Thinks we should go back and support Lord Uther… No enemies discovered, you are most welcome."

"What about you?" asked Mark, sliding his saber back into its sheath. "Do you want to help us? I heard rumors of Uther being swamped with work."

"Got any money?"

"No."

"Can you do the demon impression?"

"It's been three months since I my last demon impression. I used it to scare a girl's cat out of a tree, but I'm a little more collected nowadays."

"_And_ a bit better looking… You found a good barber?"

"The best in the multiverse," smirked Mark. "I'll do the expression later, and you'll join us. How's that?"

Matthew nodded his approval and grinned. Mark looked around and spotted a boulder. He leapt upon it.

"Attention, _please_!"

Everyone turned and looked up at him (or on level with him, as Hector was so tall) and waited.

"I know that Lord Eliwood is anxious to continue on, but I suggest that we rest here and nurse our wounds—"

"Wounds are gone," interrupted Hector, pointing at Serra, who struck a pose.

"Yes… but we still need to rest," he pointed at himself. "_I_ need to rest. I nearly died, people."

Eliwood shrugged. "If you deem it necessary, Sir Mark."

Lowen sighed and began the arduous task of unpacking the tents. Marcus helped, whacking the knight across the head as Lowen tried to do all the work himself.

Another stew was bubbling, tended to by Lowen, but Mark excused himself. For some reason, the quartz knife was pulsing like a beating heart, throwing out waves of heat. The medic crept out into the woods, away from the fires of the camp, and sat against a log, wondering what Gabriel had in store for him. He concentrated, and the world began to spin.

* * *

Mark landed flat on his back, and he looked over his stomach. He was in the field that he had met Gabriel in, except that it was a bit more normal: there were winds blowing and clouds in the blue sky. He could even see flocks of birds. However, what he saw on the ground drove all thoughts of normalcy away.

He was surrounded by creatures. Some were big, some were small, some were thin, some were fat. Some were green, some were blue, and some were flesh colored. There were hands, suckers, tentacles, slime, large wings, clouds of flies, and slobber. Some had eyes, some didn't. Some looked like humans, others were as far from human as possible. Mark stared at them all, and, in perfect unison, they all opened their mouths and let out a cry.

"_HAPPY BIRTHDAY_!"

The creatures threw up their hands, suckers, tentacles, and wings. Confetti filled the air and turned into droplets of rain, which came sprinkling down. A few pillars of slime gripped instruments with oozing tentacles and began playing a rendition of the Star Wars Cantina Theme. A few monsters with exoskeletons began tooting horns and pulling the strings of party crackers, creating gouts of fire and ash. A few fireworks rose in the air, forming a colossal red medical cross. Other fireworks formed dragons, boats, and New York City skyscrapers.

"The hell?"

"Happy birthday, little mortal!"

Mark twisted around. A very tall, blond-haired man with red eyes was walking towards him. He wore a white hoodie with the word "WORD" written across in bold, stocky black letters. He wore black pants and had a golden dollar sign slung from his neck by a gold chain. The smell of funeral flowers was present, but not very pronounced.

"_Gabriel?_"

"The one and only… I'd thought I'd try the gangster look today," Gabriel's eyes went cloudy. "They're such silly people, with their _gang rules_ and their _wars_. They never grasp that fact that their territory struggles are as insignificant as a grain of pollen sunk in the bottom of the sea. The ramifications of those struggles, however… _ach_. An entirely different matter. I mean, _word_."

The being came back into reality.

"Silly mortal! It's been nearly a whole year! You forgot your birthday!"

"I'm sorry," said Mark, getting to his feet. He had been falling down a lot today… "I haven't had much time for… timekeeping."

Gabriel smiled.

"You're twenty-four! It's a rather inauspicious age, nothing special, but a birthday is a birthday!" Gabriel gave a wide grin and spread his arms, indicating the creatures around him. "Most of these fine fellows are my subordinates. Thought I'd give them a break from their work. I also have a few coworkers present… In fact, there is one creature here on level with _my_ vast power! Well, almost… _almost_."

Gabriel looked at his crowd. "Raphael? _Raphael_? Where are you?"

The crowd shifted and looked around. A few beings called out, all yelling that Raphael wasn't in a particular corner of the crowd.

"Raphael's not here? _Ach_! I will fetch him."

Gabriel leaned down to Mark's ear. "I wanted him to meet you. Mingle with the partygoers for a while, if you would please. I'll be back soonest."

Gabriel vanished with a strange digital fadeout. Mark stood alone, surrounded by the group of otherworldly creatures. The music faded away as the slimes put their instruments down. Everything was silent.

"Um… hi!" Mark said, sweat beginning to run down his back. The menagerie of… things said nothing "Well… do you want a speech?"

"Do _you_ want a speech?" came a voice from the back. A few creatures tittered, and a giant ant-like creature snapped its jaws together.

"No," replied Mark, adjusting his collar. "So, since you all know each other, why don't we just have a party? You know... eat some food, talk…"

The crowd stared at him for a while, then began shuffling about, awkwardly striking up conversations. The field filled with the hum of talking, gurgling, chirping, and clicking. The pillars of slime took up their instruments and played a song. This one was much quieter and slower.

"Right…"

Mark saw a set of tables in the distance, and began to walk to it, navigating the crowd. He managed to avoid most of the slimier creatures, but he did get a few quills stuck in his sleeves. It took him ten minutes to get to the tables, as the crowd was so large. When he got there, he realized that the tables were piled with food. In the center off the group was one giant table with a giant, multi-layer cake that was as tall as a two story building. At the top, Mark could see a little replica of himself, leaning on a miniature Apologetic Irony. He focused on the food tables. There were pigs-in-blankets, pieces of sushi, nachos, fries, an assortment of fruit (with a lot of mango), and many, many more. There were a few otherworldly items that Mark could not identify, but he ignored those, grabbing a few pigs-in-blankets, a piece of pecan pie, three mango slices, and a few sticks of celery, smeared with peanut butter. Mark looked left and right, wondering where the drinks were.

"Would the mortal care for a drink?" asked a cunning voice.

Mark turned around and looked down. The creature looked like a little goblin, with skin of purest black, a swarthy face, and beady eyes. He was only as tall as Mark's knees, and wore a red-and-white servant's uniform. Furthermore, he was holding an empty tray, the kind used for carrying wine glasses.

"The wine is very good," the creature grinned impishly. "Aged since the dawn of time. And the champagne! Very good, yes?"

"I… I wouldn't know…"

The creature cackled a high-pitched cackle.

"Of course not… mortal is only used to mortal drink! Would you prefer some of your artificially-aged American beer?" the creature made a face. "Or a good German lager?"

"I'm sorry," said Mark, "but I don't drink."

The creature cackled again. "A teetotaler! Would the mortal prefer grape juice?"

"That would be appreciated," said Mark, moving to let a large creature with furry arms and too many eyes serve himself what looked like marshmallows covered in green, toxic ooze.

A tall glass of purple liquid appeared on the waiter's tray. The impish being offered it to Mark, putting the tray over his head while sinking into a low bow. Mark gently plucked the glass from the tray and took a sip.

"I… wow. This is good!"

"No cancer-causing preservatives for the mortal in there!" the creature cackled again and straightened up, putting the tray under his arm.. "Only the finest green and red grapes!"

"Thank you."

The creature bowed once more, then asked a question. "What are you, mortal?"

"Eh?" Mark thought for a moment, very confused.

"What type of human are _you_?"

"Well, I guess that I'm a Caucasian," murmured Mark, a little confused.

The creature picked at its teeth, which were long and pointy. "Caucasian? My name, it is also what I am. I am Night Terror Type 437."

"_Night Terror_?" Mark's eyes went wide. Night terrors, phenomena that occurred during the early years of childhood. Children would enter the fourth, deepest stage of sleep and dream of a dark, shadowy figure sitting on their chests and suffocating them. They would not be able to push it off, paralyzed, but would wake up. The body, not accustomed to being woken from fourth-stage sleep, would be very disoriented.

And so, the young child would be extremely disoriented, practically blind, and thinking that there was a monster in the room that was trying to kill them. They would go ballistic. Luckily, children would forget night terrors when the day broke, so no trauma occurred.

They _usually_ forgot.

"Wow, just wow," Mark ran hand through his hair and stared closer at the black creature. "I though that night terrors were a psychological problem! You guys are _real_?"

He shivered. All those years…

"So, whenever _I_ had a night terror, it was actually one of you guys_? Actually suffocating me_?"

The creature giggled throatily and stuffed its fingers into its mouth. Mark jumped as a slimy tentacle touched him on the shoulder.

"Would the birthday-mortal like to request a song?" It was one of the musical pillars of slime.

"I-I don't know—"

"Would the birthday mortal like techno?"

"Techno?" Mark was surprised. "You can play techno on your horns?" That was what the instruments looked like, anyway…

"We also play nu metal," gurgled the creature. "Would the mortal like nu metal? Rap? Country?"

"Whatever you like," answered Mark, shakily taking a bite out of one of the pigs-in-blankets.

The creature gave a gurgle that might have been a sign of disapproval before moving off. Jazz began to play.

"Mortal!"

Gabriel appeared out of nowhere, clutching a harassed-looking man in a red robe. He had red hair and pure white eyes, with no pupils.

"Raphael, meet Mark. Mark, do the same."

"Hello, Raphael," said Mark. Raphael nodded a greeting, his eyes briefly flashing silver.

"So, I'll leave you two alone," Gabriel looked at Raphael. "I have to go talk to Ishmael… excuse me."

Gabriel vanished. Raphael sighed, staring at the spot where the being had vanished, and opened his mouth.

"I do not understand my kin."

Mark felt elated. The being's voice was so… _pure_. It was the voice of the angels…

"Well, I don't understand him either," Mark grinned. "I just go along with what he says."

Raphael turned his blank gaze to Mark, towering over him. "You are Mark Bristow."

"Yes…" said Mark.

"You are Lord Misery."

"Right."

"You…" the corner's of Raphael's eyes turned a sick yellow, "… are a _murderer_."

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it. The elation was gone.

__

The north wind doth blow…

The corners of Raphael's mouth twitched. "Yet, you repent. You do not forgive, but repent… that's good. _And_ you're a medic. Which gives you points, in _my_ eyes."

Raphael grabbed one of the pigs-in-blankets from Mark's plate and shoved it into his mouth.

"Healers," said the being. "I love the company of healers, even ones that tend to be a little… _jerkish_, if I may be allowed to make up a word."

Mark shrugged.

"Furthermore… the circumstances involving the murders," Raphael grabbed a mango slice from Mark's hands. "With your mother—"

"I would prefer if we didn't talk about my mother," said Mark.

"If you refuse to talk about am issue, the issue will not go away. That was one thing Freud got right."

The two stared at each other. Mark was disliking him by the second. Arrogant, to come out and bring up the worst part of his life like that…

Raphael sighed. "I'm ruining your birthday, aren't I? Well, I _do_ have a gift for you. Gabriel has one as well… He and I are the only ones allowed to give presents… Regulations, regulations…"

Raphael sniffed.

"I was considering giving you my greatest gift," said Raphael, "but, due to your track record, I will not." The being plunged a hand into a pocket in his robe and pulled out a small, white box. He opened it and showed its contents to the medic.

"_Morphine_?"

"Three syringes," said Raphael. "Although it is alien to the continent of Elibe, the bodies of your comrades will accept the substance without much complaint. Some nausea might occur… but that's the price to pay for instant pain relief."

Mark took the box and stared at it. "Well, thank you… Though I want to know what your 'greatest gift' is."

"Healing Hands," answered Raphael. "The ability to take pain away from someone and accept it into one's own body."

"Hey… that's better than morphine," Mark said. "Come on… you want to see… whatever… to succeed, right?"

"No," said Raphael. "I only give that gift to those most worthy of it. And besides, do you really want more pain in your life?"

Mark struggled to think of a reply as Raphael stole a piece of sushi. "Although… you are in for rocky times. Your group will grow quite large. There will be a few conflicting personalities, clashing egos, and hurt feelings. It will be up to you to hold it together. Do a good job, and the Healing Hands are yours. For better or for worse."

"Fine," said Mark. "You're making it a contest? I'll win."

"I hope you do," said Raphael. "Truly. I hope I'm wrong about you. And I hope you don't disappoint Gabriel. He is quite fond of you, do you know that?"

The creature grabbed another sushi and floated away without waiting for an answer. The crowds parted for him, then surged back together to resume talking.

At least Gabriel had an engaging personality, and was always apologetic when he couldn't do something for Mark. Stupid creature… his group could really use something like Healing Hands!

"Damn it!"

"Damn Raphael? Good luck with that, young mortal!"

Gabriel blinked into existence and held out a box, lovingly wrapped with blue and gold paper. Mark carefully ripped the paper off and opened the box. Inside…

"What is that?"

Gabriel wrung his hands together. "It's not much of a gift, mortal, but my hands are tied… It's an incendiary round for your shotgun. It fires a two-hundred foot flame for about five seconds. I'm sure you can find a use for it."

Mark nodded and put the shell in one of his belt pockets.

Mark spent the remainder of the party playing chess with Gabriel. The being won twenty-two times in one hour. Cake was served (after a very odd chorus of _Happy Birthday_) and the party lasted for another hour. Gabriel stood up.

"All right!" he yelled, his voice reverberating throughout the landscape. "Pack up and get back to work!"

The creatures vanished in billows of smoke, and plates clattered to the ground. Gabriel clapped and the trash disappeared.

"Some party, mortal," said Gabriel, rubbing his hands together. "But you need to go back."

"Thank you Gabriel. I had fun…"

"Yes, but Raphael nearly ruined it. _Ach_!" Gabriel's eyes turned a deeper red, and Mark caught a brief glimpse of hate. It vanished quickly. "But what to do, eh?"

Gabriel clapped his hands, and the world began to spin.

"_Oof_!"

Mark fell on his stomach, the incendiary shell and the box of morphine bouncing next to him, syringes spilling out. Mark quickly leapt up, but it was too late: one of the syringes had bent and broke. Precious morphine spilled out into the soil. Mark watched the ground soak it up, then lamenting under his breath, picked up the remaining two syringes and placed them back in the box. He sat up and sighed, then heard shouting coming from the camp. It seemed as though Serra and Hector were arguing about something.

Healing Hands…

Mark scoffed and picked himself up. He trudged towards camp, wondering how to diffuse the confrontation. However the argument was over by the time he got there, and Oswin had already taken watch.

Perhaps it would be harder then he thought. Mark set up his hammock as everyone said their goodnights. He reached for his boonie to put over his eyes, but remembered that it was now no more than a few fragments of cloth. He put it back into the bag as it started to rain.

Nature sucked.

* * *

That's it. I hope it was worth the wait. Once again I apologize.

Poor Mark. Not being able to do dark magic. He's like the Trix Rabbit.

Gabriel: "Silly mortal, Elder magic is for druids!"

Another OC. Wee dee-dee.

OC's to remember for later chapters:

1. Gabriel

2. Raphael

3. Fausty

4. Fiche

5. Derek

6. Koheleth

Pfeh. Read and review, please. They're my motivation to write.


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